


The Other, Just as Fair

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Korkie Kryze is a Kenobi, Political Parties, Qui-Gon Jinn's A+ Parenting, Tumblr Prompt, but literally, but unironically, tag originator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: A collection of one-shots based off tumblr prompts. I don't care. I am single-handedly justifying Korkie as a real character. I don't care that he has seven minutes of screen time. This is the world I meant.1. Obi-Wan & Korkie2. Qui-Gon & Obi-Wan[...]12. Obi-Wan/Satine13. Obi-Wan & Luke & Korkie14. Obi-Wan/Satine & Korkie15. Obi-Wan & Anakin16. Luminara & Obi-Wan17 & 18. Obi-Wan/Satine
Relationships: Korkie Kryze & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Korkie Kryze & Luke Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Korkie Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn & Korkie Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Luke Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Satine Kryze/Garm Bel Iblis
Comments: 186
Kudos: 210





	1. Away the Vapour Flew

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is just where I'm gonna dump all my tumblr prompt fills. Will there be many? Will this be it? Idk. It's how I feel.
> 
> Anyway, hit me up. I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**_AW_ ** **_AY THE VAPOUR FLEW_ **

* * *

He holds out his hand, and waits. The seconds tick by beneath the weight of observation, and for a brief measure of time, for the length of a melody’s refrain, he thinks that perhaps he will be left with his hand extended, and empty.

But then, with the grace of sunlight, the Jedi lifts his hand, wide sleeves falling back to reveal pale skin, and bird bones. He places his palm flat against Korkie’s own, his fingers cresting the eminence at his wrist to rest against the pulse point there. He says nothing in reply to Korkie’s greeting, only frowns, his touch light, uncertain, and fleeting.

They leave the Parliamentary Docks separately. Korkie, impatiently ushered away by his guard, Xyz, and the Jedi by his aunt the Duchess’ High Advisors. Their meeting has been brief. Insubstantial. And to his aunt’s awareness, nonexistent. There may have been some confusion stirred up in the belly of his guest, but Kiorkicek Kryze has never felt so certain of anything as he does Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

It just _feels_ right.

And if he can have nothing but this moment - if he is to be granted no formal acknowledgement, or informal concession - then at least he can live content having recognised himself in his father’s eyes. 

But later, when the politicians have returned to the city, as stars to the sky, and when his aunt and her retinue have retired to bed, Korkie is cornered by a presence so familiar as to be his own.

“That was a Stewjoni greeting,” the Jedi says, from the shadowed alcove he haunts in the palace library.

Having spent the day contemplating his earlier success, and quite unable to shake the vague sense of disappointment still clinging to his palm like a film, Korkie has come here to disappear into a story. And yet…

“It was,” he acknowledges, dipping his head in respect.

Obi-Wan steps into the light, a holo of his own choice flickering to black as he sets it back in place on the shelf before them.

“I am not Stewjoni,” he says. “I am a Jedi.”

“I am not Mandalorian,” Korkie replies, without pause. “I am a pacifist.” Obi-Wan smiles at that, and Korkie knows his lesson is taken, concluding primly, “So, you see Master Jedi, in this way I can be many things, or nothing at all as well.”

“You are very wise,” he says. “A trait perhaps learned from your mother?”

“Perhaps,” agrees Korkie, smirking and coy, not at all content to be so easily caught.

“Or your father?”

“Do you think?”

Obi-Wan cocks his head. His smile turns down into a frown, though not of displeasure, his aspect taking on an expression of thoughtfulness that seems suited to the lines of his face, and the serenity of his presence.

“I think I should have to meet them before I could make a certain judgement,” he says, then holds out his hand again as a Stewjoni. “I am Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Korkie presses his palm to the Jedi’s.

“I am Kiorkicek Kryze,” he replies. 

“Kryze?” asks Obi-Wan. His voice is light, but in the way of gossamer things, like spinner’s web or fine silk, easily rent by the wind. “I didn’t know the Duchess had a sibling.”

“A sister,” says Korkie. “My aunt, Bo-Katan. She - we don’t speak of her much. She left long ago, and Auntie Satine says we shouldn’t dwell on the past.”

“Then your parents -?” But Obi-Wan breaks off, and turns back to the volumes on the shelf. His mouth is thin, pressed white, as though it is his very bones that wish to speak, and only a little blood which prevents them from doing so.

Korkie, though, has been waiting for this - _wanting_ for this - since he met Obi-Wan in the docking bay, for hours now. For years. For ever, he thinks.

“You can ask,” he says, softly, the whisper of his breath stirring the fine strands of burnished hair at the Jedi’s temple, so similar in colour to his own. “Ask me.”

“I fear I would be lost.”

“Then say nothing,” Korkie says. “And know all the same.”

The words themselves might suggest censure, or some cruel judgement, but his voice is kind, and he smiles until his eyes crinkle and a dimple appears where the curve of his mouth is couched against his cheek.

“I am sorry,” Obi-Wan offers, his words as much a wraith as he first appeared. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Korkie says. He reaches out to set his hand against his father’s forearm, urging him to retreat from the battlefield of grief and guilt. “I am happy,” he assures him. “I am loved.”

“That is not enough,” says Obi-Wan, firm and upright once more. “I should have - _she_ should have - I cannot let this go! ”

“I can,” vows Korkie. He swears it with every part of himself, and throws open the shutters of his heart and his lungs and his gut so that perhaps Obi-Wan may feel this cleansing wind which passes through him like honeycomb, carrying such sweetness with it. “I will - if _you_ will. For yourself. Let it go.”

“For you,” says Obi-Wan. “If you wish it. For you.”

“I do,” says Korkie. “I am honoured to have met you.”

With that, he drops into the deep bow he’s seen Jedi masters bestow on their equals and their elders in holoreels, and senatorial tours. But though his eyes are cast low in respect, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand at his shoulder, urging him upright. The Jedi stands close, and with another hand at the back of his neck, brings him closer still until their foreheads touch.

“No,” says Obi-Wan, low and profound. _“Ni cuy'tal'kot de gar oyay, Kiorkicek Kryze. Ni cuy’tal’kot.”_  
  
_I am blessed by your life, Kiorkicek Kryze. I am blessed._


	2. Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #2: Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan; "No heart is made of stone," and "I'm alive. I can tell because of the pain."

**_JUDGEMENT_ **

* * *

“Do you think they were...kind?” he asks. “In the end?” 

And though it pains him to speak, Qui-Gon answers honestly.

“No,” he says. “I do not think they were.”

At this, Obi-Wan nods. The judiciary benches have long since emptied, the crowds roused by a hard judgement, and a swiftly executed sentence. There had been jeering, mockery, and cruel laughter, and Obi-Wan had sat silently by Qui-Gon’s side, wrapped utterly in his dark travelling cloak. There had been no gaze to catch, the somber pools of his eyes concealed by the drape of his hood. Neither had there been a hand to hold, their delicate articulations twisted so deep within the folds of coarse fabric as to be invisible to Qui-Gon’s searching grasp. 

Instead, he’d remained stoic, hardly breathing as the magistrate had condemned a young woman to death. 

And it had been Obi-Wan’s word which brought her there.

“I do not think that I should be a Jedi.”

The phrase is whispered, whistled through the clenched teeth, and cracked lips of Qui-Gon’s charge. It is quiet, as though he cannot bear the thought of his pronouncement, but it is also clear, and earnestly meant.

On this, Qui-Gon is not so certain as his padawan, but it is not his place to refute him. Only Obi-Wan can do that. Qui-Gon Jinn is a Master, and it is his job to teach.

So he swallows, shifts his weight, and allows the contours of his body to fall into something more relaxed, hoping to coax Obi-Wan along with him. But Obi-Wan does not relent. So Qui-Gon seeks to educate him.

“And why do you think that?”

The boy turns to him abruptly, offended by the possibility that Qui-Gon cannot see how clearly he has transgressed, and how unworthy it must make him.

“Is it not obvious, Master?” he demands, some fire warming his benumbed lips. “I have murdered her.”

“It is not you who has shaved her head, or torn her limb from limb. It is not you who cried for blood. You did not sentence her. You did not bring her here. You did not sanction or commit her crimes.”

“But I told you who she was.”

“Ah,” says Qui-Gon, comprehension beating a percussive note from his lips. He leans forward, elbows braced upon his thighs, his hair trailing over his knees as he sits in deep thought, puzzling out the stars with Obi-Wan. “Then do you suggest it is my fault for alerting the authorities? Or for failing to negotiate a plea, or mitigate her sentence?”

“No!” cries Obi-Wan. The edge of his hood is too slow to keep pace with the padawan’s thoughts, and slips over his ear to catch and expose his pale face to Qui-Gon’s contemplation. “You tried,” he insists. “Even when it made them angry, even when they threatened to arrest you with her - you still _tried_...I only _tattled_.”

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” the master sighs. “Can you not see how cruelly you accuse yourself?”

“She came to me for help,” Obi-Wan protests. “And I killed her for it.”

“No,” says Qui-Gon, firm in this where moments before he has been lax. But then, it had been an exercise, and he had meant for Obi-Wan to reason his way into illumination. Instead, he sinks deeper into self-recrimination, and despair, both of which are far less becoming of a Jedi than an optimistic spirit and faith in his elders. This cannot continue. “You are a child, Obi-Wan,” he says.

“I’m _thirteen_!”

“And I have lived more than three of your lifetimes, my padawan. Grant me the benefit of the doubt when it comes to accumulated wisdom, both as your teacher, and your elder.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes falling low. A narrow hand has emerged to pick at a loose thread, worrying the small flaw into a larger fraying edge.

“Yes, Master Qui-Gon,” he mumbles. 

“You are a child, and this woman came to you because she knew you would act as such. She wanted sympathy. She wanted malleability. She wanted a defender who could neither judge nor question her.”

“She _used_ me.”

“We are Jedi, Master Kenobi,” he says. “We come to be used. We arrive with every intent to serve. We are here to help in any way we can, as best we can. You helped her.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, unconvinced, but a drop of water, illumined by the sun slipping slowly beyond the horizon, falls hot and shining upon the sea of cloth pooled in Obi-Wan’s lap. It disappears in almost the same instant, only to be chased by another, and another.

“None of that,” sighs Qui-Gon. He is a proud man, he knows, and gruff besides, but he is no stoic, not like the stubborn boy beside him. And he is proud of him. So he does what Obi-Wan so vehemently chastises himself for now: he shows him kindness. He reaches out and pulls his padawan close, until Obi-Wan’s head is tucked beneath his chin, until his cold hands slide beneath the folds of Qui-Gon’s own cloak to feel the heat of him beneath, until his upset is soothed and muffled by the low susurrations of Qui-Gon’s voice, vibrating like tectonics shifting in his chest. “It will be alright.”

“It still feels wrong,” cries Obi-Wan, his anguish drowning in his throat. “It still feels unfair. It still hurts.”

“It will always hurt, young one,” Qui-Gon says.

At this, Obi-Wan’s upset turns briefly to rage, flickering impotently against the sea before being drowned again by sorrow. “Well, I wish it didn’t,” he says. 

“Don’t say that,” Qui-Gon chides. “It must hurt. It is right that it hurts. You must know it hurts me too, but that is how I know I am alive - I can tell because of the pain. I would never wish something as awful as apathy on you.”

“Well, I _do_ wish it,” Obi-Wan says, tearful and insistent. “I wish I didn’t care. I wish I was numb. I wish I was ice.”

“Do you think that would help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I shall tell you, dear Obi-Wan,” says Qui-Gon, his mouth close to his padawan’s ear. “It would not. Ice melts, after all. It does no good to turn away, and leave others to their strife.”

“And yet, everyone here did!” the boy cries. He pulls away to stare Qui-Gon square in the face, his little visage torn and scarred with salt-stained grief. “They didn’t care that she was to be killed.”

“They’ve been hurt, as well,” he replies. “They are also mourning.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No,” he says, a flat denial. “They liked it. They were _happy_.” 

“And can those things not grow from anger, grief, or fear? Can not the Dark rejoice in the sufferings of any heart?”

Obi-Wan frowns. His tears abate, and he takes a deep, gasping breath before laying his head down on Qui-Gon’s broad shoulder.

“Then perhaps one must not simply be cold,” the child suggests. “Perhaps it would be better to be made entirely of stone, so that nothing at all can touch you.”

“Oh, my padawan,” Qui-Gon sighs. He holds his burden close, and runs his fingers through the copper strands of tangled hair pressed against his breast. “No heart is made of stone. They are fragile, heavy things, and that is why we must be so careful with them.”


	3. To Forget Ourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from kyber-erso or [kyber-erso](https://kyber-erso.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. 
> 
> "The grass reached for the sky in uncoordinated brambles. Flowers sprouted in the voids, gasping in relief in the sun. If one was to lay within it, they would be completely hidden. "I thought I might find you here, little one.""

**_TO_ ** **_FORGET OURSELVES_ **

* * *

The grass reached for the sky in uncoordinated brambles. Flowers sprouted in the voids, gasping in relief of the sun. If one were to lie within it, they would be completely hidden. Qui-Gon Jinn, however, was a large man, and though he crawled forward on his belly, and twisted to lie on his back, his knees still arced above the grassline like ancient monuments on a foreign plain.

"I thought I might find you here, little one.”

Beside him, couched like a _barah_ fawn in a nest of broken reeds, and soft needle greens, Korkie Kryze grumbled out a paltry welcome. He snapped the twig in his hands then launched the pieces into the air above him. They arced high, then fell out of sight, disappearing into the long grass surrounding them. 

“No one knows this place,” the boy countered. “It’s secret.”

“Ah,” Qui-Gon said, suitably chastened. “Do I need a chain code, or civil chit to stay?”

Korkie frowned. The dry litter crinkled beneath his head as he shifted to consider Qui-Gon with all the seriousness of a Mand’alor.

“No,” he decided. “Just a password.”

“Oh,” Qui-Gon said, nodding sagely. “What is it?”

“I can’t _tell_ you,” Korkie sighed. He kicked his feet out straight, flinging a handful of needles into the sky to emphasise the impossibility of Qui-Gon’s request. “You have to guess. Otherwise it’s not very secure, is it?”

Staves - small brown and green slivers of yesterday’s sunlight - fell like confetti around them, pricking the skin of his cheeks and brow. He closed his eyes, as beside him, Korkie flinched away to shield himself.

Once recovered, Qui-Gon considered his options.

“What password shall I guess?” he asked.

“If you can’t guess it, then you don’t know it, and you can’t stay,” Korkie decreed.

“A fair judgement,” Qui-Gon said. “But I am so very old that perhaps I just forgot it. Would you be kind to an ancient, aged fossil such as myself, and give me a clue?”

Korkie sighed again, loud enough that he nearly gave it voice, just to be certain that Qui-Gon was quite aware of the inconvenience of his request. Still, he relents, and he cupped his hand to Qui-Gon’s ear to breathe the secret between them.

“Oh, I see,” the Jedi said. He opened his mouth, and exhaled, the confidential code a near corporeal thing in the world before Korkie slapped his hand across his mouth, preventing the sound from escaping.

“You can’t say it out loud,” he cried. “You have to whisper it to me. Otherwise anyone might hear it.”

So Qui-Gon held his own hand to the boy’s much smaller ear, and murmured the password back.

“Okay,” Korkie said, satisfied. “You can stay.”

“Thank you,” the master replied. 

For a while, they lay in silence, staring up at the wide expanse of sky above them. The firmament was a bright blue, but to those two votaries it appeared bruised and dark as the heavy dome of Sundari arched high to dim the effulgent rays so that mortals, too, might bask beneath them.

Between them, there was perfect accord, both content to rest in the company of the other. There was a meditative peace in the sound of grass, and in the touch of the sun. But, at four, Korkie had little patience for the beauties of the world. Instead, he was much preoccupied by his own troubled thoughts, and unlike the heavy evergreen needles, they refused to settle softly beneath his head.

“It isn’t fair,” he houghed, another twig straining to reach the escape velocity of their orbit.

“That is true about many things,” Qui-Gon agreed. He reached his hand to the earth beside him, digging until the litter gave way to fine silt. It ran over his fingers like silk, weighed down by the oils of his skin, and left a dusting over his palms. “What, in particular, are you most troubled by, my boy?”

Korkie sighed again. His sighs contained whole systems within the bounds of their expulsions. He rolled to his side, facing Qui-Gon, curling his legs, and tucking his hands beneath his head. His entire aspect was bent toward the consideration of his most serious complaint.

“It isn’t fair that _Bebu_ must leave again when you only just got here.”

Qui-Gon rolled to face him, equally considerate.

“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?” he asked. “After all, your father and I have been here for nearly four months. Since before your mid-break. And we shall not be leaving until after Holyhod Day. That is quite a long time, don’t you think?”

“If I were in school the whole time,” Korkie agreed. “But break doesn’t count. And plus, I _was_ in school for some of it, so I didn’t get to see you as much.”

“Your buir saw you every day, Kiorkicek,” Qui-Gon said, quite firmly. There would be no slighting of his own evergreen, and erstwhile padawan by anyone.

Korkie felt the justice of Qui-Gon’s correction, and thrust his lower lip forward in tremulous defiance.

“I said, not _as_ much.”

“So you did,” agreed Qui-Gon, quick to acknowledge his own fault. “Forgive me. Go on.”

“I am only saying,” continued Korkie, “That it isn’t fair that Bebu is going so soon, and taking you with him.”

“As I am the elder, perhaps it is I who is taking him.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Korkie said.

“No, I suppose not,” Qui-Gon said. It was his turn to sigh, as he rolled to his back once more, and stared up at the sky, watching it ripple behind the glossy dome, like light over water. “Do you know, when your father was little he used to lie in the grasses at the Temple, just like this, and look up at the vaulted claricrystalline of the Coruscant day?”

“ _Bebu_ did? Like me?”

“He did.”

Korkie screwed up his mouth, riddled with scepticism. “No, he didn’t,” he said. “This place is much too dirty for _Bebu_. He always tells _Belli_ that I look ‘a wild creature unfit for civil tables’ when I come back like this.”

“And what does your mother say to that?”

“She says she loves wild and untamed things the best. And _Bebu_ always laughs, and -” he added, leaning near to confess - “he never gets actually mad when I get mud on his trousers or his tunics. He just pretends.”

“Well, I tell you quite truly he _did_ lie in the grass,” Qui-Gon murmured back, and Korkie’s eyes brightened with expectation. “When your father was not much older than you are now, he used to hide in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and return to our rooms very bedraggled, indeed.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” Qui-Gon vowed. “I can recall several instances where he found himself covered in muck up to his ears!”

“You’re tricking me,” Korkie said.

“I am not,” Qui-Gon denied. “On one occasion, he dropped your mother into a great puddle of mud, and she was covered, too!”

“And then what?”

“What do you think,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes glinting with mirth. “He reached in to help her out, and then -”

“Then?”

“Then _she pulled him in_ after her!”

At this, Korkie burst into a riot of laughter, so bright and clear as to startle a flock of dozing _echo’lanaar_ from the trees. 

“ _Bebu_ was covered in mud!” he shouted, alive with joy. “And _Belli_ , too! They must have looked so silly!”

Qui-Gon grinned. “They did,” he swore. “Quite silly. Much sillier than you look when you go home covered in needle greens or clay. And do you know what else?”

“What?” Korkie asked, falling silent and reverent again, caught in the grip of Qui-Gon’s voice.

“Every time we left the Temple he missed his home, and his friends, too. Just like you miss him when he’s gone.”

“It’s different,” Korkie said, feeling slightly betrayed by the way Qui-Gon has turned back to beckon his troubles join them in this den. “Because _he_ left his friends. His friends didn’t leave _him_.”

“What is the difference, Kiorkicek, if everyone is still parted?”

And that was something he had not thought of. 

Korkie frowned, trying to puzzle it out, but Qui-Gon spared him the struggle because the lesson to be learned was difficult enough for a master, fully grown, never mind a boy hardly older than a few revolutions of the earth.

“Don’t you think that your _Bebu_ misses you?” he asked. “Don’t you think he’s sad when you’re not there?”

“Maybe,” Korkie conceded. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Qui-Gon said. “And I can promise you that when you are here, and he is there, he always wishes you closer.”

“I don’t think so,” Korkie said. “Because if that were true, then he wouldn’t leave at all. He’d always be _here_ , and he wouldn’t care about _there_.”

“But he has many duties and responsibilities to do there,” Qui-Gon countered, his voice soft as the brambles below. “You know he saves lives. You know he frees people. You know he changes whole wide worlds, Kiorkicek. And he can’t do that from here.”

Korkie breathed deep, and exhaled. Needles scattered. The curved back of a tiny strill appeared in the dirt beneath his finger, gaining a wide jaw and a long tail as Qui-Gon watched, and Korkie thought about things.

“Are you sure he misses me?” he asked, at last.

“I am certain,” Qui-Gon said.

“How do you know?”

He looked at Qui-Gon then with such belief, such faith, and all at once, the Jedi saw another little boy who’d looked at him much the same for years, who also hid in brambles when upset, who also longed for the reassurance of desire, and he knew that this time, he would not hold back.

“I know,” he said, his voice solemn, and his gaze steady, “Because when your father is _here_ , and I am _there_ , I miss him just as much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the Mando'a:
> 
> Look, I make it up.
> 
> Bebu: From "be'buir" (my parent), and used to refer to Obi-Wan as he is the lesser in rank in terms of clan status.  
> Belli: From "be'aliit" (my family), and used to refer to Satine as the head of the family/ranking member of the clan.
> 
> They're still gender neutral, but this way we can all discern who tf Korkie is talking about.


	4. And Never Do Harm to the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For treescapes. The prompt was “If you want, we could go together,” for Obi-Wan and Padme, my loves.

* * *

She asks him before she’s certain of the wisdom in it, herself, and he looks at her as if he’s only certain of its absence.

“If you want,” she says, “We could go together?”

The hitch in his step makes her wince as they reach the top of the Temple steps. She’s trapped him now, she knows, and feels guilty, but there’s no way for her to withdraw without causing further injury to both their dignities. 

“I only suggest it since I know it’s a burden to - to _me_ ,” she explains. “And my usual escort is indisposed.”

He smiles. It’s a stiff and awkward line, as though drawn across his face by the unpracticed hand of a child, but he bows, and acquiesces with grace.

“Of course, Senator,” he says. She’s _senator_ again, though moments before with Masters Windu and Koon she’d been _Padme_ , so she knows it’s not the company.

“If it’s no inconvenience. I wouldn’t want to impose on your schedule, if you’d only meant to go for a short -”

“It’s no inconvenience at all,” he insists. His smile is kinder now, his awkwardness eased by the desire to alleviate her own obvious discomfort. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Good. Then I will know to expect you,” she says. With one more shallow bow, and the press of his fingers to hers, she hurries away, anxious to escape the louring gaze of the Temple guardians, and Obi-Wan’s curious stare.

She expects that he will show up, as promised.

She expects he will be, in all ways, gracious and prepared.

She expects stilted conversation, and wonders how often her tongue will stray to speak of Anakin, hoping the wine and frizz won’t alleviate one problem only to create another.

She expects she will spend the evening regretting her impulsive invitation, and making _him_ regret it, if he doesn’t already.

What she does not expect is to be met at her door by a man she hardly recognises.

She has known Obi-Wan Kenobi since she was a girl, and he, hardly more than a boy, though in her eyes even then he’d been a man well beyond the reach of her childish ambition. Met again, he’d seemed...not ancient - one could hardly call him that - but aged, perhaps. Somber. Solemn to the point of serenity. He had an authority of a kind she’d only seen in grandmothers and wild prey, a sort of amused resignation to the motions of life, and an understanding gained through loss and sorrow. Whatever it was, it was something very distant from her, as if he’d grown out while she’d been busy growing up. 

But the man that stands before her now is young, and sparkling. And nervous. It is a side of him she’s not seen before, and it has her counting the distance of years in her head. Is it ten? Less than? Surely not more. Are they truly peers? 

He wears a skirt of muted blue, with three deep pleats pressed the full length on his right side. The creams of his traditional tabards are replaced with a stiff white tunic, and a thigh-length jacket with wide sleeves that drapes soft as the sky over his shoulders and down his back. It is a curious mix of imposed structure and natural elegance. 

“Jedi formalwear,” he explains beneath her curious inspection. His fingers twist at the inside of a sleeve where the fabric hangs just long enough to hide his hand. He extends his opposite arm to offer her proper support. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she agrees, and instead of the more sophisticated and out-dated practice of simply laying her hand atop his, she tucks her arm beneath, and steps close until their arms are pressed between them, more like comrades than indifferent chaperones.

They stay that way until they reach the Feano Lyceum, Obi-Wan’s arm against hers. She is presented first, and his name follows. She thinks he may pull away here, in public, but his hold remains neither loose enough to encourage release, nor tight enough to prove her suspicions about his disquiet correct. 

A few ambassadors and fellow diplomats nod in greeting at their arrival, but they are not questioned about their connection. This, Padme realises with some relief, and then worries that the Jedi may sense some of that and go looking for its source. She isn’t certain, yet, what lies within the power of the Force to provide. Anakin seems as attuned to her moods as she is at times, and then so oblivious at others that she thinks they must be total strangers. It would be unfortunate if Obi-Wan were to tend towards the former. If he knew about whom she thought of so often and so well...

It’s been six months since she’d wed her knight, and she’d heard lots about Obi-Wan second-hand, but only as a father, or an overly strict mentor. He is neither of these things tonight. And he is neither of these things to her. So what is Obi-Wan Kenobi?

A Jedi, certainly. Wise. Accomplished. Just. Driven. Demanding. These were all revealed to her by Anakin, and proved to her by history. But he’d said more she was less convinced of.

Stern? Perhaps, though she might instead say _serious._

Aloof? Not that. Not judging by the way he leans into her at the approach of the senator from Alk’Lellish III who courts him with a lascivious flick of her tongue, and lingering prehensile limbs. 

Cold? Not by the way he nudges her to draw her attention to the buffet table where two politicians abandon a vehement argument to fall into an enthusiastic embrace, stifling a smirk. 

Pretentious? Not in how he coaxes her to try some sort of elegantly twisted hors d’oeuvres only to break out into genuine laughter as he watches the spice hit her tongue.

“You _knew_ ,” she accuses, trying in vain to wipe at her mouth with a synthcloth napkin in an elegant fashion.

“I might have,” he acknowledges, before mercifully passing over a cocktail from the bar. “It’s a White Knight. Made with nerf-milk. It’ll soothe the sting.”

She throws the drink back with the steel of a seasoned professional, and Obi-Wan’s brow rises in surprise.

“I’ve been in politics a long time,” she says, a warning in her tone.

“Ah,” he says, signaling for two more. “So have I.”

His own drink disappears as quickly as her first, and he calls for a flute of frizz while she sips at the Knight.

“I was under the impression you’d be above all this,” she says. “You know - as a Master of the Order.”

“I had similar delusions,” he agrees, taking a long draught of his drink. “However, it turns out there’s rather more politicking in times of war than of peace.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it seems that now we are required to be paraded about as the face of the Republic at these things as often as possible. To show we are here. To demonstrate our investment. To prove that the Chancellor is doing something about the Separatist threat.”

He finishes that drink, and reaches for another passing by on a tray. Padme’s smile turns to a frown as she watches that one disappear nearly as rapidly.

“You sound as though you don’t approve,” she says.

Obi-Wan tenses beside her, and turns away to set his empty glass aside. She cannot see his face, so must read what she can in the rigid line of his back as he says, “I lost many friends on Geonosis.”

“I’m sorry.”

When he turns back he is smiling softly once more, and she can’t tell if it is the Knight or some otherworldly radiance of his own that makes him blur at the edges, disguising his hurt, and transforming his disgust into dust, swept away by the fine skirts, and elevated company.

“Don’t be,” he says, deliberately applying her apology to a far less serious wound. “That’s why I came tonight with you. I had hoped you might ease my way, and perform all necessary flattery for me.”

“Oh, I hardly think you need my help in that,” she says, rolling her eyes, content to follow him to safer ground. “Maybe only to keep your admirers at bay.”

A short, sharp exhalation of air, and he falls silent, looking away.

“Why, Master Kenobi,” she cries, entranced and in utter delight, “Are you _blushing?_ ”

“That would be rather undignified for someone of my rank,” he denies. “It’s only a flush from the heat of the room.”

“You _are_ blushing!”

“I am not,” he says. “It’s the ventilation that’s lacking.”

She waits. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, until she catches his gaze and holds it. His lips twitch. She can see his facade begin to splinter. It only pushes her to a higher mirth, and she laughs outright as it gives way entirely, leaving them both breathless and gasping.

Their joy catches the interest of several nearby dignitaries, one of whom is the Lellish ambassador with the wandering appendages, and before Obi-Wan can revert back to the blandly pleasant stoic he plays at, she takes him by the hand and leads him to the floor.

“Dance with me,” she says.

His smile remains, though his head tilts in confusion. 

“This doesn’t seem a particularly effective way to solicit political support,” he suggests.

“No,” she says. “Not at all. But then I don’t find myself particularly interested in politics tonight, do you, Master Kenobi?”

“Obi-Wan,” he corrects, eyes shining.

“I thought not,” she says, and a smirk winds its way across her lips like the arched spine of a smug _felinx._

They dance one set, and then the next, twirling away in a flourish of colour and light the moment anyone steps too near, or looks too close, and for a time they cannot be touched, and when they are spent, they fall laughing, out of line, upon each other.

“Anakin won’t believe this!” she says, her voice still rising with the excitement of the music. She doesn’t realise what she’s said until Obi-Wan’s eyes turn cloudy, and a wedge forms between his brows as he looks on her with a strange regard. “Next time I see him,” she amends. “I’ll tell him your secret.”

The Jedi coughs to clear some stray thought from his throat before it can be said aloud, and looks out over the room. 

“Yes, I - I’m sure he’ll be amused,” he agrees. “Though we have attended many functions such as this before. Growing up. On a variety of worlds. It can be of little surprise to him - it seems that such civil negotiations are common everywhere.”

Padme settles her skirts, and treads cautiously. “I suppose that’s true,” she allows.

“Though I imagine he little suspects that I am capable of such delight.”

“He has never said that,” she says, unwilling to slander Anakin even in her denial of him.

“But evidently, he thinks it,” Obi-Wan says, then sighs, gathering himself again. “Forgive me,” he says. “I find myself more and more uncertain what Anakin thinks, and feels. He doesn’t come to me as - Forgive me. You’re much too young, but I suppose one day, when you have your own younglings eaten up by adulthood you’ll feel it, too.”

“You’re not so old as all that, Obi-Wan,” she chides. “Hardly older than me, and not much older than Anakin. Certainly not old enough to be his father.”

“I was his _master_ ,” he corrects. “And now that he is knighted, I’m not certain what I am, anymore. He is changing faster than I am.”

She watches him as he watches the room spin, whirling by him in a wild array of colour and form that he cannot possibly follow - or if he can, then he is even more distant, even more removed from her ability to reckon. He is different. He is set apart, even from Anakin, and she suddenly wonders if that is because of the Force, or because of himself. Is it he who feels removed? He who feels shut out? He who feels divested of his place in the world, defined only by the title others call him and lacking the distinction of earnest comprehension? It isn’t enough, she thinks, to see in him what Anakin sees, or what she might expect. She needs to see him for himself, and appreciate him for that.

“His brother then,” she concludes, and she takes his hand. “And my friend, whatever else besides, no matter what he thinks.”

“If you say so,” he says, and she can feel him yield beneath the pressure of her hand, and the firmness of her conviction.

“I absolutely do. Let’s not think of him. Let’s be whatever we are right now. Let’s be delighted and delightful together, and have just one more dance.”


	5. The Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the Spotify Wrapped prompt game. #12 - The Chain (Ingrid Michaelson). Hope you like it! <3

* * *

**THE CHAIN**

The sky over Capital City is grey, and tremulous when they arrive on Coruscant. A natural storm had surged over the breakers of the planet’s ancient atmo regulators to sound its rage and fury out above the city. It’s rare, but not unheard of, and though some might take it as an ill omen, Satine thinks it a fair reflection of the twisting winds within her breast. Rain falls in great, heavy drops, lashing its grief across the transparisteel viewports as they break through the clouds. Thunder cracks, righteous and defiant. Lightning fractures the plate of the sky, reaching out with jealous fingers to touch the earth. Korkie has slept through it all, but Satine doesn’t want to miss any moment more than she must.

They hit the pad with the sudden jolt of gravity reasserting itself, the locking clamps securing them in place. She feels each shudder of the ship echoing in her bones, the soft satyn of her simple travelling gown like water over her skin. Every contrast feels sharp, and malicious. She takes Korkie’s small hand in her larger one, and together they wait for the ramp to lower, releasing them into the wilds outside.

And they are met.

Across the platform, standing silent in the downpour, is Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

Though her vision blurs, and renders his face unreadable, she can see the straight line of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his chin, and the defiant stance of his feet spread wide. His hands are hidden in the fold of his cloak, and at his back are Masters Windu and Jinn.

At Satine’s back is the black maw of the ship, and the wind whistling through it. Korkie laughs, and she looks away from the Jedi to see her son, hands out, catching rain. 

“It’s wet! _Belli_ , look!” he says, showing her his hand, shining in the grey light. “The sky is crying!”

Satine feels the rain coursing over her own face, and smiles in recognition of his delight.

“It is,” she says. “Happy tears, of course. Coruscant is glad to meet you, _kih'kairkiyc._ ”

He grins at her, and she squeezes his hand, and together they cross the narrow bridge from the ship’s dock to the reception platform where they are met by Obi-Wan. He steps forward, and bows, deep, and formal.

“Duchess,” he says. His voice does not waver, but lies flat, and orderly in the space between them. 

He is much the same as she remembers, though his hair is longer, and his braid is cut. A beard has grown in, at long last, though she does not like how it covers his mouth, and hides half his face, and she longs to reach out and wipe it away so she might be able to read him again, like she used to. But there is more than an arm’s length between them, so instead, she nods her head in acknowledgement.

“Knight Kenobi,” she says, like glass, clean and showing nothing of itself.

Korkie tugs at her hand, and she pulls him forward to introduce him next. His fingers linger at the tips of hers as she lets him go. He takes a step. He takes a breath, and just as they’d practiced, he bows with his hands clasped before him, until his back is level with the floor.

“How do you do, Knight Kenobi?” Then, in succession, “Master Windu. Master Jinn.”

The three Jedi return the gesture. Master Windu is tense, and wary of her, she can tell, still unconvinced of the wisdom in this. Obi-Wan’s eyes are fixed on her, but Qui-Gon Jinn smiles at the boy, and Korkie stumbles back until he falls against his mother’s stomach, his hand reaching out to fist in the fabric of her gown to steady himself.

“Hello Korkie,” the old Jedi greets. His voice is soft, like birdwatchers in Keldabe before. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Obi-Wan is pulled from his study of the past by this reminder of their present company. His hands drop, and he shifts, leaning towards her, his head ducked and uncertain.

“I apologise for the weather,” he says. “I would have - if there had been any indication of inclemence such as this, I would have suggested somewhere with a roof.”

“Of course,” Satine says, too quickly. Then, bridling herself, she continues. “Coruscant is usually such a civilised, and well-behaved planet, it could not have been foreseen.”

There is the promise of forgiveness at the end of her declaration, which Obi-Wan accepts with relief, and they smile at each other. It is brief, and carried more in their eyes, than in their mouths or hands, but it is there nonetheless.

“And you, Master Korkie,” says Qui-Gon, with a smirk of his own. “Are you more civilised, and well-behaved than you appear at first glance?”

He gestures to Korkie's rumpled tunic, and mussed hair which sticks up in wild tussocks like knots of grass.

“Someone was rather exhausted by our journey,” says Satine, fondly. “He fell asleep just past Corsin.”

“It was rather a long flight,” says Korkie, in his own defence. “And I don’t much like flying. Lightspeed always feels funny.”

At this, Qui-Gon kneels to meet Korkie on his level, and speaks as if he is confessing some great secret.

“Do you know,” he says, “That Knight Kenobi also dislikes flying.”

Korkie throws a wondering glance at Obi-Wan, who shifts beneath the scrutiny.

“Truly?” he asks Qui-Gon.

The Jedi nods. “Yes, truly. Only he stays awake the whole time.”

“Why?”

“I think in order to complain,” says Qui-Gon. “He needs to be sure that I am equally as miserable as he is, otherwise he feels lonely for company. But it does make for a very long trip, from my point of view.”

“That’s silly, Knight Kenobi,” declares Korkie. He turns to address Obi-Wan directly, and though he speaks critically, his brow is lifted, and his eyes wide in an earnest desire to ease the knight’s discomfort. “It’s much better if you sleep,” he says, with all the wisdom of a moment. “The time goes by much faster.”

Obi-Wan is forced to accept his master’s censure with grace as to spare the gentle feelings of an innocent child, so he smiles, and bows to acknowledge the boy.

“As you say, Master Kryze. You are probably right.”

“I know I am,” Korkie says. “Even though I _do_ look a little wild in the end. But I _feel_ tidy. So I suppose it’s just a matter of which part of me you look at.”

With a rumble that starts deep in his belly, then tumbles out like thunder, Qui-Gon Jinn laughs.

“A man after my own heart,” he says, giving Korkie a little clap on the shoulder. “I foresee you will become a great Jedi, Kiorkicek Kryze.”

“Sorry to interrupt, Duchess, Obi-Wan,” says Master Windu, stepping between the parties, “But as this rain doesn’t look to be letting up any time soon, may I suggest we complete the investiture ceremony somewhere a little drier?”

He levels Obi-Wan with a challenging glance, but its severity is diminished somewhat by his own bedraggled state. Despite their equal exposure, the rain has somehow managed to do more damage to Mace Windu’s composure than any of the others. Perhaps because he is more conscious of his position, and his dignity than the other two, Qui-Gon being rather untroubled by such pretensions, and Obi-Wan still humbled and distracted by the circumstances in which he’s come face to face with the unquiet ghosts of his past. Both of them wear the rain with ease, but Mace has struggled, unable to convince himself of the need to shield himself, but conscious of the desire. His cloak is patchy with damp, and the top of his head reflects the sky, the water washing his face, and dripping from his lips and chin. It is clear that Obi-Wan feels this indignity on his superior’s behalf, but Satine fights laughter at the spectacle.

“I think that would be wise, Master Windu,” she says, her voice tripping and sparking with barely repressed delight.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, with a shallow bow. And then he says, “There is an air car waiting.”

And Satine feels her stomach drop.

She meets Obi-Wan’s eye over Mace’s shoulder. His gaze is steady, and somber and as he makes his answer to the master’s request, and she can hear farewell in the heaviness of his voice.

“Yes, Master Windu,” he says. “Satine, I’m sorry we must be so brief, but I -” and he stands gaping, and voiceless for a moment.

The tight knuckle of sickness twists in her gut, scraping across the raw nerves of the underside of her skin, buckling muscles, and shifting against her bones, but she swallows the nausea back, and saves Obi-Wan from the inexorable void of silence.

“Do not apologise, Obi-Wan,” she says. “These things cannot be helped. Perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps the sting will be less.”

“Like a plaster,” he says, numbly.

And she agrees. “Just like.”

Master Jinn rises from his crouch, leaving his hands to ghost over Korkie’s shoulders, his hand still wrapped in her own, and Obi-Wan still staring at her, still drowning in the rain. Master Windu is merciful then, and bows out his leave taking.

“I’ll prepare the car,” he says.

“Thank you, Mace,” says Qui-Gon, when no one says anything else, and Master Windu leaves them to say goodbye. 

But still, no one moves. Silence falls, a fragile, lacework thing, too delicate to touch with the clumsy fingers of speech. They remain suspended in its web for an age, until Qui-Gon braves what the others cannot fathom, and speaks again.

“Obi-Wan,” he says, stepping away from Korkie to reach for his own grown padawan. “A word.”

He draws him aside, turning away, turning their backs to Satine and Korkie, and speaking quietly in Obi-Wan’s ear, an arm about his shoulders, and drawing him close in private assignation. At another time, she might feel ostracised and othered by this, but now, she is grateful. It is she who is with Korkie, and the Jedi who must stand apart.

She kneels to face her son, heedless of her skirt, of the thin satyn and how it catches at the rough duracrete, pulling taut, maybe tearing beneath the pressure of her knees. She doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. What matters is this: herself, and her son, and the rain washing away the things between them.

“I don’t want to go,” says Korkie, and she grips his hands tighter than before.

“You must,” she says. “You must. You are going to be a wonderful Jedi Knight. Just think of that.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I know I said before, but I changed my mind. I want to go home.”

“You can’t go home, _kih'kairkiyc_ ,” she replies, her tongue growing thick with a truth she hates to speak. “Remember? We talked about this. It’s dangerous. But you will be safe here. Knight Kenobi will protect you.”

“But who will protect you if I’m not there?”

“Oh, many people, Kiorkicek,” she says. “A whole court of people. All the people. The people of Mandalore will be my strength, and they will take very good care of me while you’re away, and one day, when you come home, they will be glad to meet you again, and so will I.”

“Do you promise?” he asks. “You won’t forget me? Even if I’m gone for a very long time?”

“Even if you were gone for almost as long as forever, I would never forget you, Kiorkicek Kryze. _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad. Ratiin_.”

“ _Ratiin_ ,” he repeats. “Always, and always.”

“Yes,” she avows. “Now, do you remember what I told you?”

“To wash my face, and brush my teeth every day, even if I’m very sleepy.”

And she laughs, pulling him close to her breast, and tucking his head beneath her chin.

“Yes,” she says. “That is very important, but what else?”

“To listen to the masters, and study hard, and show respect, and try my best, and to always, always be very kind to Knight Kenobi, because he isn’t always very kind to himself.”

“Yes,” she whispers. She presses a kiss to his hair, and combs it as flat as she can. “That last part, most especially, _kih'kairkiyc_. Look after each other. For me.”

“ _Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Belli._ ”

“ _Bal Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, balyc._ ”

“Satine?” The call is Obi-Wan’s and she looks up from the cradle of her embrace, and her son within it to see him standing cautious, and concerned a few paces away. “It’s time to go.” 

“Of course,” she says. She stands. She takes Korkie’s hand, nestled in her own, and places it in Obi-Wan’s. For a moment, the three of them are one, together, and then…

She lets go.

“Goodbye, my Kiorkicek,” she says. “Remember what I told you. _Kote, ijaa, aliit. Ratiin_.”

He nods, and she can see his grip tighten on Obi-Wan’s hand, fierce determination rising in the face of her expectations. It is Obi-Wan who falters.

“Satine, I -” he shakes his head. His eyes match the storm. “I will do my best by him, I swear. I will not fail you. I will not.”

“I know,” she says, steady where he is not. “I would not give him up to another. None but you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. _Gar ratiin ru’kar'taylir_. Be gentle with it.”

He nods. There is nothing else to say, and they’ve always been terrible at goodbye. She smiles at Korkie one last time, and he points at the sky.

“Happy tears,” he says, and grins, wiping the salty streaks from his own face.

And with that, he tugs on Obi-Wan’s hand, and leads him off towards the distant figure of Mace Windu, and the air car waiting patiently to take them home.

But Satine is not alone.

Qui-Gon Jinn steps close, until she can feel his shoulder jut up against her own, the warmth of his body breaching the barricade of wet clothes, to soothe her own chapped skin, and she shivers against him.

For a moment, they say nothing, just watching as Obi-Wan turns to Korkie, and Korkie to Obi-Wan, chatting animatedly, his free hand swooping through the air. She imagines he must be telling him of their departure from Mandalore, and the world he left behind, and she hopes that selfishly, she might be included in as many of these stories as he thinks to tell, because he is in all of hers. Qui-Gon chuckles beside her.

“Fast friends, already,” he says.

“Forgotten just as fast,” she whispers, nearly losing the words to the storm. But Qui-Gon is listening closely.

“Never that,” he says. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she yields like water, dropping her head to his shoulder, and weeping into the crook of his neck.

“I thought I was ready,” she says, hitching breaths to match the shifting winds. “But it has come too soon.”

She feels his chin press against her skull, and though it isn’t exactly comfortable, there is comfort in the angles of his affection, and she leans closer to him, until her arms sneak beneath the wet folds of his outer robe, and wrap around his waist. She clings there, as though she might blow away. This is familiar, though it is an old, old memory, now. She was once a girl, before she was a Duchess, and Qui-Gon Jinn was once to her the very thing her father could not be. She was bereaved, but never lost, and there were many nights that Qui-Gon held her while she wept just like this. It is easy to reach for him, now. It is easy to look back.

“You are never ready,” he says, his voice vibrating so near to her ear it is as though he speaks to her from within her own mind. “But he is not going very far. He is with his family. He is with his father. You are not losing him to the wilderness.”

“No,” she says. “Only to the Force.”

He does not chide her for the bitterness upon her tongue.

His own words remain gentle, and soothing, and he rocks her in his arms, as they watch the matched set of their hearts walk away.

“then, I have lost him twice,” he says. “First to the Force, and then to you. But people always come back, in one way or another. No one is gone forever.”

And as they reach the car, as though he hears their call from across a vast, unending night, and over the wind and roar of the storm, Obi-Wan looks back, and Qui-Gon smiles.

“Oh, look,” he says, as the knight turns once more to his son. “There he goes again.”

Satine buries her face in Qui-Gon’s arms, and though she doesn’t feel at peace, for a moment, she feels very nearly like she has come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations (MANY thanks to Finn, and Jess, and the Obitine discord. Geniuses. The lot)
> 
> Belli...akin to "Mama"
> 
> kih'kairkiyc...essentially "little sweetheart"; in terms of my own use and hc, Korkie's full name, "Kiorkicek" is derived from this term, and largely why he goes by Korkie. Being called "little darling" as a teen boy is a tough go.
> 
> "Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad. Ratiin."..."I know your name as my child. Always." It's a Mandalorian adoption vow, but Satine's using it to affirm Korkie's place as her recognised family.
> 
> "Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum."... "I love you."
> 
> "Kote, ijaa, aliit. Ratiin."... "Glory, honour, family." A little play on the phrase used to seal pacts ("truth, honour, vision")
> 
> "Gar ratiin ru’kar'taylir."..."You have always held my heart."


	6. No Single Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID I WRITE THREE FULL LULLABIES FOR THIS THAT I NEVER USED? ........yes.
> 
> Anyway, this was for the Spotify wrapped prompt: #7 "Mommy What If"
> 
> Thanks, especially and always to  treescape  who didn't let me delete this.

* * *

Kiorkicek Kryze has learned a secret. 

And it’s one he doesn’t think that anyone else around him knows. Not Master Windu, who always looks at him with a frown, but slips sweets into his hands when others aren’t looking. Not Knight Vos, who once let Korkie try out his lightsaber in exchange for his word that he’d not tell Master Kenobi how the glass panel of his datapadd got shattered. And definitely not Padawan Briss, who claimed to have sneaked into the Forbidden Archives one night, and met a ghost that granted wishes to those brave enough to look for him.

There are no Forbidden Archives, and there are no ghosts - he’d asked Master Kenobi - so he’s convinced that Padawan Briss must not know much of anything, let alone his secret.

Masters Jinn and Kenobi don't know it either, he's certain, for they're much too old, and much too serious to even _imagine_ the wonderful thing Korkie has found.

_There is a boy who lives in the wall._

Korkie hadn’t known it at first. He’d thought himself quite alone in his room, as he lay awake in his little bed. The light of Coruscant’s city streets were too far below the Temple to be seen, the cacophony of life too distant to be heard, and Korkie’s thoughts far too quick to be quieted by sleep, so to pass the time, he’d tapped out a pattern upon the wall.

After that, he’d knocked again, enjoying the sound. The soft percussive beats fell like rain from his fingertips. He knocked louder, like thunder, striking the wall with the flat of his hand. Then with his littlest finger he knocked as gently as he could, just to see how small a noise could be. 

And then, the wall knocked back.

Startled, Korkie cautiously tried again - three sharp raps. And three sharp raps came back. He traded knocks with the wall for hours, until he fell asleep, and then the next night, he knocked again. And so did the wall. Soon, a sort of language developed between Korkie and the echo in the wall. Two small knocks were made in greeting, and two small knocks replied. Sometimes he knocked out the fractured rhythms of Mandalorian marches he recalled, sometimes the taps were secret codes for the echo to decipher. Sometimes they meant nothing at all but comfort. And sometimes, the wall would send its own patterns back.

Then, one day, after a month of such late night encounters, Anakin Skywalker looks at him from over morning meal with his head tilted to the side, his short braid brushing over his shoulder, and says, “Oh, _you’re_ the boy in the wall.”

Korkie feels silly then, for he’d begun to think of the little knocking ghost as his own, something part of himself, held safe between the walls and revealed only to him, at night, in the dark, and alone. But everyone knows about Padawan Skywalker. He is Master Jinn’s padawan. He is bright, and loud, and strange. He is the Chosen One. There is nothing secret about Anakin.

Even Master Obi-Wan seems unsettled by Anakin, and watches him out of the corner of his eye. 

But Anakin is afraid of nothing. He gives Korkie an appraising look, staring in a way that Korkie’s mother had taught him was rude, and reaches to take a second helping of yuka seed pudding without asking first. Korkie doesn’t know what to say.

“I’d kind of thought it was only my imagination,” says Anakin, instead.

“I thought you were in mine,” says Korkie.

Anakin talks with his mouth full when he replies, “Well, anyway, I guess it’s better that you’re real. I’d rather a friend who can go places with me.”

So Korkie does. Anakin Skywalker is a whole head taller than him, and comes from a planet with a desert you can live in. He speaks six different languages, and knows about a million ways to slice a droid, but he also is new to the Temple, and doesn’t mind when Korkie needs extra help in finding his way. And in return, Korkie helps him with the other things - the things that Anakin can’t do so well. He helps with his Basic, and remembering when to bow, and in what order. He helps with ID chits, and chain codes, and how to navigate the holonet. He lets Anakin have his commlink when he breaks his own, and doesn’t protest when it’s returned with cinder smudges and scorch marks.

And at night, when everyone is asleep, when Korkie knows that Anakin thinks most of home, he knocks on the wall between them to remind him he is not alone.

And Anakin knocks back.

“What is it that you’re saying to me?” he asks, when next they meet. Master Jinn is always over for tea, and Master Obi-Wan makes frequent calls for counsel, so they are in company more often than not, and more often than not, they choose to be these days.

“Oh, nothing,” says Korkie, prodding at his holocam until a staticky, and uncertain solar system is thrown into the sky. It flickers out of existence just as quickly as it came, and Korkie sighs. “Just old songs my _belli_ used to sing to me.”

“Let me have that,” says Anakin. He grabs the holocam from Korkie’s fingers, and turns it over and over in his hands. “Who’s your _belli_?” he asks.

“From Mandalore,” Korkie explains. “My _buir_. Who I came from.”

“Oh!” exclaims Anakin. “Your _mom_!”

Then he goes very silent for a moment, his brow furrows, biting at his lip and concentrating very hard on the cam in his hand. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your mom.”

“Oh,” says Korkie. “Why not?”

Anakin shrugs. “Master Jinn says we’re supposed to let go of the past. And my - my mom said we don’t look back.”

Korkie thinks about this, while Anakin pries open the belly of his unit, prodding at the silicon innards. 

“Master Obi-Wan has never said that.”

“Well, does _he_ talk about your _belli_?”

“No,” concedes Korkie. “She only makes him sad.”

“Like I said,” he says, restoring the metal plate, locking it in place, and handing the device back. “Try it now.”

Korkie thumbs the switch, and the two boys are caught in the orbit of a million worlds, and a billion tiny stars. They rotate through the air, casting glittering light over their faces, and the burnished glow of their hair.

“Perhaps they don’t say anything only because they have no mothers of their own, and they don’t know what it is to miss them.”

“The Jedi don’t have moms or dads,” insists Anakin, scowling at the stars.

“Well, _we_ do,” says Korkie.

Anakin has nothing to say to that, and so emboldened, Korkie presses his suit.

“Maybe, perhaps, we can do both?” he suggests. “Maybe we can talk about them to each other, and not to our masters, and that can be our secret, and that way no one has to be sad.”

For a moment, Anakin says nothing. He sits as still upon his knees as Korkie has ever seen him, his eyes tracking one bright object then the next. Finally, after an eternity, he nods slowly, as if unconvinced, but unable to resist.

“Okay,” he says. “Our secret.”

And Korkie grins in delight.

That night, their mouths pressed to the wall, and then their ears in turn, they speak to each other about their homes.

“Shall I go first, or you?” asks Korkie, his voice low and eager.

“Me,” replies Anakin. “I’m the oldest.”

“Alright. What is your mother’s favourite colour?” He turns his ear to the wall as soon as he has finished, not wanting to miss a word of Anakin’s response. He presses close until the cartilage pinches, and his temple beats out his pulse against the flat.

“Blue,” he says. “Like the skies. Like my eyes. What about your mom?”

“Blue, too!” he says, and in his excitement, he nearly forgets himself. “And my eyes are blue like yours.”

“Of course,” comes the voice. “We are brothers, after all.”

They sit in silence for a moment after that, because it is difficult to speak through the wall. It is hard to be precise, and harder still to think of good questions. None of them really show anything about what it is they miss most.

“Did your mom ever sing to you at night?”

“Yes,” says Korkie. “Did yours?”

“Yeah. And during the day. Everyone sings on Tatooine. To tell the time.”

“Sing me one,” says Korkie, “For late at night.” And he falls asleep to Anakin’s voice humming softly from behind the wall. 

In the Archives, Korkie asks him about the song.

“It’s about the market at the Pika Oasis,” Anakin says. “Old women go to sell their fruits, but sometimes, everyone is too poor to buy anything.”

“Could _you_ buy anything?” Korkie asks.

“No. We were always too poor to buy,” says Anakin. He almost says something else, but changes his mind, and says instead, “I know another one you’d like.”

“Okay!” Korkie agrees.

Anakin checks his shoulder to make sure they’re completely alone, and leans low over his holotext. Korkie leans closer to hear. In a sweet, lilting voice, Anakin sings words that Korkie has known since birth.

_“_ _Buir, buir!”_ he goes. _“Te ik'aad pir'ekulor, te ik'aad pir'ekulor par gar, a te kar cuyir dar teh te kebii'tra, bal Ni dar'taylir tion'jor. O meg, o meg, kelir Ni vaabir?”_

“That’s Mando’a!” Korkie shouts. His eyes are wide, and his surprise so great that it awakens some holobooks on a distant shelf. They flicker blue, before steadying again, and going back to sleep as Korkie wrestles his emotions back into a respectable form. “How do you know Mando’a?”

“My mom,” says Anakin, smiling like a felinx. “She learned from the traders, and then she taught me.”

“Sing it again,” Korkie demands.

So he does, and when he’s finished, Korkie frowns and tugs on his own short braid.

“It’s almost right,” he says. “But you sound funny.”

Anakin bristles. “That’s exactly how I learned it.”

“No, no,” says Korkie. “It’s just the tune. It should be more like this.”

And that night, Korkie sings Anakin to sleep as he recalls the strange reciting tones of his _belli’_ s gentle voice.

This goes on until one day, Master Jinn tells Anakin - who informs Korkie in turn, who then tells his master who, of course, already knows - that they have been assigned a mission. They are being sent to a nearby Core world in order to mark the first anniversary of a long-awaited conurbation of planets.

Anakin is thrilled. 

Master Qui-Gon is calm as ever as he lays his hand along Obi-Wan’s forearm, and presses a palm to his cheek.

“We’ll return soon,” he says. “And under far less duress than the last time we ventured forth.”

Obi-Wan smiles, but it is a grim little thing, and Master Jinn’s words do nothing to chase the tremulous shadows from his eyes. 

“It’s only a few days,” agrees Anakin. “And we’re going to attend a banquet!”

He grins at Korkie, who feels similarly uneasy. He sidles closer to the thick folds of his master’s cloak, and reaches up to find buried between them his father’s hand. His palm slides easily into Obi-Wan’s and they take comfort in how they cleave to each other.

“Be careful,” says Master Obi-Wan.

“Always, my padawan,” replies Master Jinn.

They leave without a backward glance, and Korkie eats alone with his master that night.

It is only later, after the sun has set, and he’s tucked tightly beneath the soft blankets of his bed, that Korkie reaches out to knock against his wall, and is surprised when no one knocks back.

He knocks again, but still, he is alone, and in the silence of his lonely room, he begins to cry.

He knocks, and weeps into the down of his pillow, and weeps, and knocks again.

And then, someone knocks back.

But the sound comes from his door, and is followed by the hiss of pneumatics, and the warm spill of light from the hallway beyond.

“Kiorkicek?” calls his master, with the light at his back. “What’s wrong?”

He cannot say, and only cries louder, calling out for his master, and relief from the dark. The Jedi doesn’t hesitate. He sweeps into the room, the edges of his robes gilded with bronze, and leans over to pull Korkie into the cradle of his arms. He clings to his father, his legs kicking free of the blanket to wrap about his waist, and his arms thrown about Obi-Wan’s neck. 

But though he reaches for Obi-Wan like he reached for his mother, it doesn’t _feel_ the same. His father holds him, but doesn’t rock him in his arms. He rubs circles on his back, but does not press a kiss to his brow, or stroke his hair. He whispers in his ear, but he does not speak his tongue. He is nothing like _belli_.

Until he starts to sing.

It is not a song of Mandalore, or of desert markets in the Outer Rim. It is neither happy, nor sad, but something balanced in between, like dawn. He sings of night. He sings of light. And he sings of them, together, promising himself to Korkie until time beyond knowing. 

Gradually, his breathing calms, and his cheeks dry, and he goes willing, and boneless back beneath the covers as Obi-Wan tucks them both into the narrow confines of Korkie’s bed.

“Is that a song from your _belli?_ ” murmurs Korkie, held close to Obi-Wan’s chest.

“No,” Obi-Wan whispers, so quietly that only the stirring of golden hair may mark it. “It is a song from the Jedi,” he says. “It is a song from Master Jinn.”

And together, they fall asleep.

  
  



	7. Lift Up, and Fall Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this is for my mum. Love that lady.

**LIFT UP, AND FALL AWAY**

* * *

Luke travels to Dantooine by himself.

It’s been weeks since Bespin, weeks since he’d been released from medical supervision aboard the _Dreamless Sleep_ and weeks since he’d left all its well-meaning but overbearing clinicians behind. He knows he should go back to Yoda, or search for the bounty hunter who took Han, or help Leia rally the scattered rebel forces back into order, but instead, he makes his escape.

There is little enough to recommend the planet. It is an outer rim world with no industry or economy to speak of. There are no cities, or monuments, the largest settlements boasting hardly more than a few thousand people and recent rumours suggest a small but growing number of them may be Imperial sympathisers which doesn’t bode well for him: The Miracle of Yavin; The First Hope of the Alliance. He can’t imagine anything like that will be met with particular enthusiasm here. 

But even beyond political allegiances, it is a distinctly unappealing place being both unremarkable and largely unremarked. It is off of any useful trade route. It has few interplanetary allies, and only one weak judicial body to govern the entirety of its surface. In fact, the best thing Luke can think to say of it is that it is nearly as far away from Tatooine as it is possible for anything to be.

And far from Dagobah, too.

He brings his X-Wing down in the middle of a grassy plain, and leaves Artoo to run diagnostics on the ship. It’s his second (since he’d abandoned the first in Cloud City), and so lacking in all the alterations he’d so carefully programmed and calibrated into his previous fighter. He’s trying not to think of it as a nuisance, but an opportunity. A second chance. A second ship. A second hand - he smirks at this, and adjusts the blaster at his hip. He needs a second blade.

But there is something else that he must do first.

The sun is high as he sets off, only a small ration pack slung across his chest, and the blaster with him. Artoo’s whistling complaints grow fainter as he goes, until they are drowned completely beneath the whispers of swaying grasses. They are all turned brown. It is late in the year, and so they are filled with the gossip of an entire season. They brush against his legs, eager to touch this visitor and pass on rumours of his presence to their brethren, the trees, whose voices are heard in the rustle of leaves, then carried off on the wind in birdsong. 

In the distance, he sees a herd of grazing iriaz, but they move off long before he is close enough to comprehend them as anything more than silent shadows, silhouetted against the sky. They leave prints - wide tracks scratched into dusty earth, and little pools where they have kicked up some water to sustain them. Common havoc kites circle lazily overhead, riding the updrafts on stiff, unyielding wings. They too, take no interest in Luke, and soon disappear in search of prey. The drone of some insect rises and falls and vanishes, its source remaining unseen. It seems to Luke that all of Dantooine is of a beautiful, but uncurious nature, content to live and let live without extending either welcome or censure to those who cross its lands.

It is in this manner, unencumbered by anything but the weight of his thoughts, that Luke finds himself only a few hours later passing beneath the boughs of ancient blba trees to arrive on the doorstep of a tidy stone cottage in the middle of the Khoonda plains. The base is a round structure, supporting another smaller yet equally round structure on top, like buckets of sand packed tight and upturned upon each other. Where they meet, there is a ring of wood slats, angled steeply downward as shingles to protect from run off, the door an old fashioned vertical slide that folds over itself as it springs from the floor to hide away in the crossbeam above. He knocks, and when a man with blue eyes, and gold hair threaded silver answers, Luke knows why Ben’s ghost has asked him to come.

“I’m looking for Kryze,” he says. 

“That’s me,” the man replies, his brow furrowed. He keeps one hand on the door, and the other braced against the wall within to lend him strength should he need it, but there is no fear in his voice, despite the blaster he’s clearly noted. 

“I’ve been sent to find you,” Luke says, and Kryze sighs.

“Well,” he says, shoulders sagging, and his body shifting to grant Luke admittance. “You’d better come inside.”

The space is warm, the amber light of the afternoon filtering through rippled glass windows to dance over cluttered walls, and overfull shelves. There are plants, bursting from their pots like Tusken black powder on fire. Paintings cover every inch of the wall not taken up with windows or furniture, and canvases lie stacked atop one another in various crevices and corners where space has run out. Books - proper old volumes printed on flimsi, and in some cases actual _paper_ , stand front to back to front in orderly lines high in their cramped cases, regimented troops of education and exploration. Lower down are curiously bent sticks, twisted knots of dry grass, beetle wings, the shed scales of a rosy drayk, leaves of various size and colour, and a small river stone, smooth and black and streaked with red. 

“Various treasures,” Kryze explains, as Luke is lost in his perusal. “You can touch them, if you like. Shall I put a kettle on?”

He wipes his hands upon an old rag, leaving streaks of blue and green, tossing it down beside a murky pitcher of water, and several brushes, and it is then that Luke realises he has caught him in the middle of something personal and profound.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” he says. “If you’re busy, I can wait. Or come back. Or -”

“Nonsense,” says Kryze, smiling. The expression is familiar, and Luke smiles back, feeling some common thread strum between them. “I ought to start on lastmeal anyway. We’re having muja dai-ungo for pudding. A favourite, you see, and yet I am the sole chef in this endeavour, since the other beasts which live here are prone to eating the jelly and leaving none for the glaze.”

It is some joke which Luke is not entirely certain of, so he smiles politely but doesn’t laugh as Kryze draws him into the cramped cookroom at the side. Water is set to boil on an ancient hot top, and Kryze sweeps aside a variety of holopads and half-finished string weaves to make space on the countertop. He pulls down two ceramplast cups, chipped and cracked, and smirks ruefully at his guest.

“A hazard of my unfortunate circumstances, you see. They say no plan survives contact with the enemy, and I take it to mean nothing at all survives contact with children. Everything here is somewhat the worse for wear, I’m afraid.” But there is nothing except long-suffering amusement in his voice, as though his pretensions of civility are an easy and happy price to pay for the benefit of such injury.

A shriek, followed by a chorus of laughter tumbles in from outside, and Kryze opens the window for a better view. Luke, overly alert to danger and almost surprised by joy, cannot help but duck his head to look, too.

A woman in long skirts races across the yard, followed by a girl brandishing a stick who looks only a few years younger than Luke, though she feels lightyears away. 

“Wait!” calls another voice, high and pleading. As the first two cavort out of sight, a third girl appears, only to stop at the call, and turn back as the fourth, and final member of the party staggers into view. A boy, no older than seven or so, sets himself down upon the ground, crossing his arms in displeasure as the girl walks back to soothe him. “They run too fast,” Luke hears him lament. “And I have lost the poesy you made me.”

Kryze lets out a breath of laughter, assured there is no danger except perhaps to his son’s vanity, and returns to his pot, measuring out leaves and water with equal care. Luke watches the girl give her brother a hug, and coax him off in pursuit of the others.

“My eldest, Jinn,” Kryze explains. “She’s a wild thing, like her mother. And Mav, too, but with a softer heart. Corim is the youngest, and most civilised of the bunch. Thank the stars, or I’m afraid I’d be terribly overrun out here. Do you take anything in your tea?”

“Um, no,” Luke says, thinking of the heavy spices of Tatooine brews. 

But the drink placed before him is a thin and watery kind of thing, of a pale pink colour. He can see the ceramplast through the liquid, and raises it to his lips skeptically.

Kryze watches him with that same kind amusement he seems to regard everything.

“It is a local variety of my own invention,” he explains. “Made from dried diabolix berries. Just the dried ones, mind you. The ones off the bush are deadly.”

Luke freezes, the rim of the cup pressed to his lips, the mild sweetness of sun still on his tongue, and Kryze laughs. He’s come here for a purpose, but has instead found himself trapped with a kind of domesticated eccentric.

He sets his tea down as politely as he can, while Kryze doesn’t hesitate to drink deeply from his own cup.

“I don’t want to be rude,” he says. “But I actually came here to deliver a message. From Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

At this, Kryze finally stills, his eyes meeting Luke’s with an apprehensive solemnity. “Of course,” he says. “What news?”

“He’s dead.”

The cup settles upon its saucer with only a faint chime of protest.

“Ah,” says Kryze.

In the following silence, guilt sweeps in, and soon Luke finds himself scrambling for the frayed edges of comfort and sympathy.

“It was fast,” he says. “And he knew what he was doing. He saved my life, and my friends. Vader - do you know anything that’s going on in the galaxy right now?”

That quiet, aching smirk curls upwards once more. 

“Of course,” says Kryze. “Why else would I be way out here?”

“I’m sorry,” Luke says.

Kryze stands to clear the table of their tea. 

“You say you’ve left your ship a few hours west? It is much too late for you to return to it now. Stay. Eat with us. Have a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, I should like to show you something.”

It is impossible for Luke to refuse this hospitality, not after he’s made such a mess of his own reason for coming here. He owes Kryze this much, at least.

“Of course,” he says. “If it isn’t any problem.”

“No problem at all,” Kryze insists. “There is an orchard down the path. If you follow the screams and laughter you should find it all right. The girls will collect you in time for latemeal.”

Thus dismissed, Luke removes his pack, but keeps his blaster close, heading for the door. At the threshold, he is overcome by a need to know for certain, and he turns back for one last look at the mysterious Kryze.

“Can I just ask,” he begins. “How did you know him? Obi-Wan, I mean. Why did he send me here to talk to you?”

His back to the door, Luke almost misses the reply carried back on the ghost of laughter.

“Oh, that,” says Kryze. “Well, after all, I am his son.”

* * *

  
The sun of Dantooine is much too reserved to intrude, and so it is to the clatter of dishware, and eager voices that Luke wakes the next morning. He stretches, and moves from his room to the sonics across the hall he thinks without attracting notice, but he is met, upon his exit, with the startled aspect of the youngest Kryze listening at the door.

Corim’s jaw snaps shut, and he frowns before declaring quite firmly that, “I wasn’t spying. I was only checking to see if you hadn’t died in the night you slept in so late.”

Luke grins. “Not dead yet, I don’t think.”

“Well, if you don’t hurry, there shan’t be any flatcakes left, no matter what Bebu says.”

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Luke assures him, and he stalks away entirely unconvinced.

Despite this threat, the table in the main room is still heaped with food when Luke emerges, fresher and more relaxed than he’s been in ages. The Kryzes are already packed tight around the table, but Mav and Jinn happily bunch over to make room for Luke between them. Mav, especially, goes out of her way to fill his glass, and pile his plate with the last of the muja preserves left over from the night before.

“Hey, that was my share,” complains Jinn, her mouth full. “You’ve already had seconds today.”

Mav blushes, and ducks her head, but her retort is vehement for all that her embarrassment is public. “We have a _guest_ ,” she says. “And your face is so full of cake you wouldn’t even taste the jelly anyway!”

“I didn’t get seconds!” Corim chimes in.

“Mother!” Jinn demands, taking her appeal to a higher court.

“Jinn, relax,” says Wyla, supremely unbothered, sipping her kaf and reading off her holopad. “Mav, be nice. Corim, I have a treat for you later.”

“S’not fair,” Jinn grumbles into her plate, but Wyla reaches over to pat her hand sympathetically.

“If you’re looking for the worst villain to blame, then examine your father’s plate. He’s more than enough jelly on that cake to last us to next harvest.”

At this, Kryze looks up to shoot his daughter a smug grin, before shoveling a heavily laden portion of flatcake into his mouth. Jelly, piled too high to survive the journey, tumbles from his fork to splatter against the flat of his plate as emphasis of his unjust indulgence.

“Delicious,” he declares. Jinn rolls her eyes, while Luke smuggles in a bite of his own portion.

It is tasty, both sweet and tart and satisfyingly thick. The meal continues through several more hotly negotiated contracts, and concludes with Wyla and Mav packing up the old speeder with the spoils of their orchard, and Jinn agreeing to mind Corim, much to her delight and his wary dismay. Kryze, it is announced, has business to attend to with Luke, and he does not expect their return before nightfall. 

“Bring your rucksack,” he says, as they prepare to leave. “It is a long walk, and I shall want for snacks on the way.”

They set off with the sun on their faces, passing once more beneath the blba trees, the little cottage growing more and more distant as they make their way forth on the plains. Luke trusts that Kryze has some set destination in mind, but after the first hour he privately wonders if his guide has been distracted, and has brought them to wander in admiration of the land.

“That there is an extremely rare simbyloona butterfly,” he says, gesturing with a long wooden staff at the erratic path of the insect. “You ever been to Konkiv? Or Sriluur?”

“No,” says Luke.

“They have butterflies there,” explains Kryze. “What about Endor’s forest moon?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, if you ever go, keep an eye out,” he says, pushing on. 

The world seems much more alive with Kryze today. Longhoppers leap from the grass as he wades through, warbling tiktiks swoop over head to catch them. One of unique boldness lands upon the top of Kryze’s staff when he stops to show Luke the little dirt mounds of puppi mice beneath their feet. He smiles, and extends a finger to the bird which cocks its head from side to side before giving in to temptation and hopping upon Kryze’s outstretched hand.

“Hello, there,” he sings, soft and low. “Aren’t you a brave thing?”

He holds the bird forth so that Luke may have a closer look at the colourful plumage before lifting it higher to the sky to release it.

“Off you go, then,” he says. “Beautiful animal, isn’t it? Usually quite shy though. You must bring good luck.”

Luke watches the course of the bird, and hardly knows he’s replied until he’s already said, “Your father said there was no such thing.”

“Did he?” Kryze beams. “Well, he always had such odd notions.”

“Unlike you?” Luke asks. It’s not that he’s insulted by the man’s amusement at a dead man, but it does seem somewhat hypocritical in light of the bird, and the paintings, and the tea.

But Kryze takes no offense, only quirking an eyebrow to say, “Where do you think I got it from?”

For all his evident curiosity this challenge seems to be exactly the sort of query Kryze was waiting for, and he begins to tell Luke all manner of things about himself as they move ever on towards the horizon.

“My mother was the Duchess of Mandalore,” he says. “A pacifist, though you’d never know it by the way the galaxy remembers us. And for a year she was under the protection of my father. They fell in love, as tragically and impossibly as any young person could wish, and when they parted my father left confident in his ignorance, and my mother was left with me. It’s difficult to say who came out ahead in that.”

“I thought the Jedi couldn’t love,” says Luke.

“And whoever told you that nonsense?” asks Kryze. “You told me my father died saving you, and he cannot have done that for anything less than the purest love.”

Luke says nothing to this, only twists a knot of grass off in his hand and releases it to the wind. They walk in strained silence until it becomes comfortable again, and Luke exhales in resignation.

“I only just met my father,” he says. “He tried to kill me.”

Kryze looks at him, then stops to look at him harder. 

“Oh, I see it now,” he says. “You’re a Skywalker. I might have guessed it, but I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice these days.”

“Are you a Jedi, too?”

“No, no,” he scoffs. “Nothing so serious as all that. But I know enough to be able to tell the blaze of a Skywalker from the general inferno of starfire. I know enough to be recognised in turn.”

“Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from the Empire?”

Kryze grimaces at this, and turns back to the path ahead. A shadow looms, rising out of the ground, and he turns their course to that.

“What makes you think I’m hiding?” he asks. Then, before Luke can parse the riddle in this, he continues. “I used to be in the Alliance,” he says. “Wyla, too. We ran intelligence rings, and sabotage missions. We fought. Even had more than a few close calls with the Empire. But at some point, around the time that Wyla found out about Jinn, we decided that was it. We’d done our part. And when the Rebellion left their base here, we stayed behind.”

“The Empire still exists,” says Luke. 

“And it will not be my hand which stops it,” counters Kryze. Then, as the shadow takes the form of a ruined temple sprung from the earth itself, he speaks again. “My parents both died for peace. I think that I owe it to them to live for it. Here we go.”

Vines cling to ancient stone, while tangles of brush climb up and over crumbled walls and gaping cracks in the side of the old building. The trees grow thickly here, still green and lush despite the lateness of the year.

“A wellspring,” explains Kryze, without Luke’s having to ask. 

He guides him past hollowed out chambers pierced only by shafts of dazzling sunlight breaking through fractured ceilings, and bouncing off shallow, invisible puddles within. Animals chirrup in the brush, and birds nest in all the little nooks and crannies of decaying architecture. Though it is long abandoned, there is still something light and sacred about the space. The air is fresher here.

“This is a Jedi place,” breathes Luke.

“It was,” agrees Kryze. “Long before the Empire. Come along. There’s something else.”

Beneath a fall of greenery and fallen rocks lies an opening. 

“What is it?” asks Luke.

“Caves,” says Kryze. Luke looks at him, still uncertain. “I have noticed that you carry no lightsaber,” he explains.

Luke flexes the fingers of his false hand, feeling the pistons and levers firing in time with his desire, but different from the muscles and sinew of his flesh. It cannot be observed by casual inspection, but somehow Kryze seems to know.

“I lost it,” says Luke. 

“Then you shall have to build another.” He gestures again to the cave mouth, and Luke braces himself to go in. He shifts the blaster on his hip, checking the settings. “You won’t need that in there,” says Kyze. “There’s nothing inside but old ghosts.”

He is halfway to moving when he hesitates, and leans back. With his eyes fixed on Kryze’s, Luke unstraps the holster from his side, and hands it and his blaster into the hands of Ben Kenobi’s son. He goes into the caves alone.

It is dark inside, and there is a chill and the sound of water dripping into water somewhere far away. Luke steps carefully. Though the ground is rocky and uneven, his steps are certain and he does not falter. After several minutes of silent exploration, with no strange whispers or startling movement, the fear he entered with begins to fall away, leaving Luke’s mind open to the growing threat of boredom. There is nothing here. He sighs, and turns to leave only to discover the way out has grown just as dark as the path going farther in. He has no torch, no light, and no sabre to steer his course, but his irritation blazes bright enough to guide him and he sets off the way he came. 

When he has walked more than twice the distance he came, and then gone back to walk the distance again, he decides there is little he can do but sit and hope that Kryze will come for him. Surely, he hasn’t brought him here to starve after feeding him so thoroughly only hours ago. And for all that Luke feels helpless in the inky pits of the caves, Kryze had not lied when he said his blaster would be of no use. There is no one here but Luke.

He sets himself down against a stone, the seat of his pants made uncomfortably damp by the floor, and quite to his own surprise, drifts off.

When he wakes, there is light.

All around him are outcroppings of crystals in various shapes and colours. Some shine more brightly than the others, and some glow so fervently it is as though they sing. He reaches out to touch one, and the rest all clamour in harmony to meet him. 

Every thought of escape is eclipsed by the beauty in the caves, and Luke trails his fingers over each crystal that calls out, following their voices deeper and deeper into the endless tunnels of black and velvet blue, until, in the deepest chamber, on the shores of a vast underground lake, he is met by something which glows brighter than all the crystals combined.

For a moment, he is compelled to shield his eyes, as the flare bursts forth in effulgent magnificence before dying down to live within the confines of an unrecognisable form.

It is a man with long hair, a kind smile, and wearing the robes of a Jedi.

“Hello, little one,” it calls out, and Luke raises his hand in reply. “I was wondering when I might have the chance to meet you.”

“Do I know you?” asks Luke, stepping closer. 

The ghost chuckles. “Not as such,” he replies. “But I know you. You are the student of my student, after all. I am Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“You were Master Obi-Wan’s master!” 

“And Master Yoda’s, too,” brags the ghost, enjoying the awe of Luke’s epiphany, but this is a boast too far, and Luke’s face falls into lines of skepticism.

“That can’t be true,” he says. “Master Yoda is much too old to have been taught by you.”

“Ah, and must education end with the cessation of breath? Cannot knowledge outlast us? Cannot learning outlive us?”

“Can it?” asks Luke.

“We are more than what we do in life, my boy,” says Qui-Gon. He sits upon one of the larger stones which border the edge of the lake, leaving space beside him for Luke. “And there is much to be learned by death, for those brave enough to seek it.”

Luke frowns, and moves to join him, trying to puzzle out the ghost’s philosophy. 

“Are you suggesting -” he looks to the Jedi for confirmation, not convinced of his conclusion. “You’re not saying that we should just give in, are you? That we should just accept death when we could stop it?”

“Not at all,” says Qui-Gon, and Luke relaxes upon the stone. “It’s good that you fight. It’s important you fight. Don’t rush to death in the vain hope that it will bring you easy satisfaction. Life and death - they are balanced. They are equal. And there is much value to be found in both.”

“Is that why Ben let go?” Luke asks. 

“Obi-Wan was wise to concede his life,” says Qui-Gon. “But that does not make his loss any more bearable for you. Or for me. And though I am glad to be with him once again, I will always wish he’d had more time with you.”

There is a smear of clay grown dry upon Luke's knee, and he brushes it off with one hand.

“Me, too,” he says to the ghost.

“But that is Obi-Wan’s lesson for you,” says Qui-Gon, his voice ringing clear across the lake. “He knows what it means to let go, but I -” he says. “I am here to show you how to hold on.”

And in the crystalline light of the caves, and the glittering warmth of the ghost, Luke learns of his lineage, and his family, and all the ways in which he is never alone. Qui-Gon speaks of the past. He tells him of a little boy who struggled and overcame, and a little boy who struggled and fell, and how neither of them loved the other any less. He tells the story of an ancient Order, and a girl queen; of a duchess, and a knight; of children lost to their parents, and parents lost to themselves. He tells of blood, and consequences, and desire, and regret, and joy, and sorrow, and how it all lives on in memory, and in stories, and in relics, and in paintings, and in river stones, and in muja dai-ungo, and in _him_.

“There is nothing lost,” says Qui-Gon. “So long as you choose to remember it. Neither life, nor love, nor people. Hold on. And don’t let go.”

And as he fades away into darkness, the song of a single crystal cries out, drawing Luke up, and up, and out of the black of the caves into the evening sun.

At the mouth of the hollow, standing with the light in his hair, and Ben Kenobi in his eyes, waits Kiorkicek Kryze. In his hands, a sabre, the kyber inside calling out.

And when Luke touches the hilt, he knows that this one is his.

“I thought it might be you,” says Kryze, smiling. He shifts Luke’s bag high against his shoulder and turns to the setting sun. “Come on,” he says. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

And when he finally returns to his ship, and Artoo, and sets a course for home, Luke leaves Dantooine by himself, but he is not alone.


	8. Bloodletting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will literally appeal to like, four people. BUT I LOVE THEM!

* * *

If it weren’t for the company, and the hour, and the fuss of it all, Satine might actually look forward to the annual Connus Festum. In theory, it is a week long festival meant to celebrate the diversity of worlds and peoples which comprise the foundation of the Republic. In practice, it is a chore. She would miss it, if she could.

But there is something about this year, this evening - the last of the festival - that is calling her to attend. Of course, as the leader of a Republic world, it is expected. As the Duchess of Mandalore, it is anticipated. As a young woman, it is awaited with an eagerness bordering on perversion, filling up the holonet for weeks as each bright ornament of diplomacy is hung beside and compared to the next.

But beyond all that, Satine is yearning for it.

It is a strange feeling, like hope without joy. A sort of gnawing hunger for something she tasted once but then forgot, and so she has become filled with a vicious appetite for anything at all. 

She must be enticing, she knows, to draw opportunity in, trap it, and subdue it so that she may then devour it all at once, and in so doing, sate her hunger in discovering the impossible again. 

Mandalorian fashion is made of straight lines, and sharp angles, but she wants to look soft tonight. Proximal. She wants to be touched. The gown she dons may have a stiff neck, and fitted sleeves, it may be elegant, and reach the floor, but it is sewn from lily-whites, and vestal pinks, and when she enters the hall unescorted, there is a brief hush so that all may hear her skirts whisper across the floor.

She, however, hears nothing, focused entirely in looking for  _ him. _

And when this search proves fruitless, the world comes racing back, loud and laughing as senators and dignitaries toast glasses, and swallow wine. She breathes deeply, and smiles at a passing salver who hands her a drink, and smiles back. The frizz bites at her tongue, and tickles her nose, the combined burn of alcohol and effervescence lending it a pleasant sting that distracts from the wound of her own disappointment.

How foolish. Of course he would not come. He never has. It has been ten years, and still she enters every room looking for him first, and he has peopled none of them.

To her it feels as though she is forever at his heels. He turns corners, and she catches the flutter of a cloak. He closes a door, and she hears the echo of his laughter on the other side. He boards ships, and the glint of a hilt dances across her skin. He is always everywhere she is not. The worst of coincidences. 

And she is here, tonight. Alone.

She sips at her drink, and wanders. There are a few people she knows, but she realises now how detached she has grown in the past few years. Breha Organa is dancing with a handsome man she has never met - it must be Bail. He has been mentioned in the few missives she has received, though her replies have been too brief to invite further exploration of the topic. 

Senator Tills of Mon Cala laughs behind a wide, pink hand, her eyes glinting with merriment that Satine is too far away to share. There is Ivor Drake, hiding in the shadows with a small plate of food. By Bluss sips from two goblets at a time. Mon of Chandrila stands serious, eyes distant as the senator from Alsakan does his best to persuade her of something she takes no interest in, and a tall diplomat from Frong stumbles his way across the floor, his face tubules dilating and constricting as he makes his clumsy approach towards Satine’s defenceless keep at the door.

“Lovely evening for a party, isn’t it?” he asks, the tubules writhing on his face out of sync even from each other.

She forces a smile, and nods. “It is.”

“And you look lovely at it,” he says, tipping forward so that she fears for the drink in his glass. “At the party, I mean.”

“Thank you,” she says, her gaze slipping away and she wishes she could follow. Across the room, her eyes catch on those of a man, and hang there. He smiles, the curve of his lips hidden by his beard but still pressing joy into the creases at his eyes, blue and laughing. At her. She tuts at his amusement, and turns back to the Frong.

“Do you want to -”

“Sephal!” comes another voice, and shortly thereafter, another man. “Sorry, if my friend is bothering you. Can I get you a drink?”

She raises her hand, drawing his attention to the frizz she already carries, and he grins.

“Well, then I’ll have to ask again later,” he says.

“Excuse me, but are you the Duchess of Mandalore?” says another. A woman with a gentle voice but a stubborn gleam in her eye steps forward. “I simply  _ must _ speak with you about the Treaty of Sundari, and the Exile to Concordia. Stripping a people of their culture -”

“Concordia is a self-governed province,” says Satine, exhaustion leaving her voice leaden. “And an insurrection leading to civil war is punishable by death -”

“But you  _ claim _ to be a -”

“Ah! Our own Pacifist Queen!” says yet one more joiner to their party. The Chancellor himself has seen fit to descend upon her, and Satine stiffens with dread.

But she smiles indulgently, and holds out her hand in greeting to Palpatine. 

“Oh, my dear Chancellor,” she says, her frustration so overworked with charm and flattery as to be nearly inaudible. “You know that Mandalore has no queen, and I am not arrogant enough to suggest such.”

“Forgive me, forgive me, my dear,” he says. “I didn’t mean to presume. It is only that you remind me of the queen on my own dear planet. Though I am now the father of every system, I must confess a lingering fondness for Naboo, and see her everywhere. A failing, I am sure, but one I cannot regret.”

He leaves her hand with a kiss, and a strangely paternal pat. It is always this way with him, she thinks. He is always pushing boundaries, and speaking only just out of turn, then coming out with the dual excuses of age and compassion, begging forgiveness for feelings which cannot be faulted. But she grows uncomfortable, and suspicious. The years pass, but still Palpatine maintains his grip.

“Of course, Chancellor,” she says, instead. “No one could ever accuse you of being presumptuous.”

Before anything else can be said, her elbow is caught by Yark Fenri, already drunk and glutted. He wraps his arm around her waist, and tries to jolly her towards the floor.

“Come, come, Duchess,” he goads. “None of that depressing shop-talk tonight. It’s the Festum! Let’s fete!”

Satine breathes deep, and exhales. Now is precisely the time for politics, and she wields her words with skill.

“Actually, Mister Fenri, I find myself in need of refreshment. If you would all be so good as to excuse me.”

“But Duchess -”

“I recall that  _ I _ was most eager to get you a drink -”

“No, a dance!”

“The moon -!”

She smiles, and dips a curtsy, passing her half full glass to Sephal. “For safekeeping,” she says. “I will return in a moment.”

Faster than any further protest, she darts away, and disappears into the crowd. She mills about in the shadows, turning circles between pillars and columns, dancing away from prowling dignitaries, until she is brought up short browsing over appetizers packed tight on an overflowing table. Someone laughs, and she looks up, caught again by the man from before. He smiles now, and up close she can see his eyes are blue, and though he takes amusement in her plight, his laughter is warm, and sympathetic.

“An impressive escape,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast. “But I see at the expense of your drink.”

“A necessary sacrifice,” she concedes.

“And yet, to my mind, alcohol is in fact, a necessity of the evening,” he says. “Let me get you another.”

And just like that, as though conjured from air, he’s passing her a glass of frizz, and tapping the rim of his against her own.

“Smooth, sir,” she says, and takes a sip.

“Garm Bel Iblis,” he replies. “Senator for Corellia.”

“Oh, you’re the pirate!” she says, twisting her words with just a hint of playful derision, and hiding her smirk in the frizz.

“And here I was, thinking you were above stereotypes,” he says, with a nod towards Palpatine, mingling in the distance. “Duchess.”

“You heard that?”

“I was in the shadows,” he says. “Looking for the next easy mark.”

“Ah,” she says. “You rebel.”

“There are rumours about you too, you know,” he says, with the hint of a scandal upon his lips. He looks away to the dancers, apparently unbothered by her presence, the way a strill cares nothing for the laumbe. 

Satine is not a laumbe.

“I have heard them all,” she says. She sips at her drink, and twists the stem between her fingers, the frizz a golden blossom blown from glass. The bubbles rise and burst, shot through with streaks of light from the claricrystal chandelier. She imagines that their shadows play across her skin like molten dust motes, then disappear.

“Any of them true?” Bel Iblis braves, and she turns to him, her eyes narrowed. 

He is baiting her, she knows, but to what end, she cannot be certain. She will not tolerate being condescended to, or belittled, nor will she allow him to judge her as a piece of meat in a butcher’s window. But his teasing is cunning, and bold. He reminds her of someone, so she studies him openly. He grins beneath her scrutiny. Daring her, like an akk-dog, chest down, tail up and calling to play.

“Are any of the ones about you?” she asks in the clipped syllables of Kalevala. 

He grins. “All of them.”

“You only wish, sir.”

“Tell me,” Bel Iblis starts again, his tone fresh and easy. “Is it true you took Sundari without a single casualty?”

“It is,” she says.

“And that you united the Thousand Clans without once taking part in any honours duel?”

“From a certain point of view,” she says, then smiles to herself, drowning that secret in her glass.

“And have you sworn off the armour of your people, vowing that no breastplate nor bucket shall ever be borne by your body again?”

She looks at him then, the phrase too precise and poetic to be coincidence. Her suspicion is answer enough, and he smirks.

“I imagine that’s what all your fancy headpieces are for,” he shrugs, gesturing to his head notable for its lack of adornment, flowing simply in long, smooth locks. “Might have made an exception for events like tonight, though. A bit of armour wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Trust me, Senator Bel Iblis, I would not dishonour the beskar’gam of my clan by wearing it here. It would be wasted on such a crowd.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, stepping closer. He leans against the wall at her back, his shoulder brushing hers in the spirit of camaraderie, and he dips his mouth to her ear as though his next words are a salacious confession. “It is true then,” he says, “That the beskar is a sacred thing. You are called the Lily of Mandalore, and still refuse your heritance.”

“I do not,” she says. Her voice is firm. Cold. But as she speaks she warms to her subject, and the passion of her people rises to its own defence. “The beskar’gam is my heritage and my right, just as with any Mandalorian. It is our clan. It is our father’s hand upon our shoulder. It is our mother’s kiss upon our brow. It has been in my family for generations, and I melted it down into molten ore, and formed it into an impenetrable brick which now sits as the cornerstone of the palace at Sundari.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It is your history,” he says, reasonably. “As you said.”

“And so it remains,” she replies, her eyes bright, and terrible, and beautiful. “Only now it has been made anew. Now it is the foundation of my people, not only myself. It is no longer that which has not been built for the purpose of bludgeoning others into submission, but sits as the foundation for their ascent. My people are at peace, Master Garm. For the first time in centuries, the clans talk of treaties over dinner tables, instead of the blood-drenched fields of battle.”

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“My name. The way it looks on your lips...I like it.”

“You’ve not listened to me at all, have you?”

“Oh, I have!” He insists. “And I have to tell you, it sounded good, too.”

“Do you think,  _ Master Garm _ ,” she says, “That you can distract me from my purpose with silly compliments, and foolish flattery?”

“Haven’t I?” he asks.

“You’re just sorry I so thoroughly disappointed your grand delusions about the Lily,” she retorts. “I’m not so soft, and fickle as the rumours have suggested. Even if I don’t come armed.”

“Disappointed?” he laughs. “Not at all. In fact, I find you absolutely charming. I like a person with a bit of spine, and you haven’t had to borrow yours from battle or blood like the rest of these sorry fools here.” He nods at the flutterings of the sycophants and politicians before them, swirling about the room, and playing their tricks upon each other as quickly as possible before the alcohol catches up. “No, Duchess Kryze - I think you are quite, quite wonderful.”

This startles her. He is frank in a way she finds refreshing, and he pays his respect in compliments she hasn’t heard in, oh, many years now, so frequently faced with the vitriol and greed of her own ambitious court. He is handsome, too, she thinks, her heart softening beneath the sincerity of his praise. And funny. And why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she have these things, when she has sacrificed so many others. Why shouldn’t she be desired, and desirous? Who is she waiting for permission from, now? She is the Duchess of Mandalore. She is the Lily of Sundari. She has chosen these titles at the expense of precious others.

But that does not mean she cannot choose again. 

She looks at Garm then, closely.  _ He is safe, _ she thinks.  _ He cares. He will not hunt me, or consume me, and I can lose myself this once where I know there is nothing to fear. _ She looks at the room once more, her eyes from habit searching for an impossible face. But everyone here is a stranger. She swallows the rest of her frizz feeling wild, and free, and dangerous, and tucks her hand in the crook of Garm’s elbow. The warmth of his body bleeds through to her own, and she feels the steady beat of his heart against the back of his hand. This night is hers.

She is done chasing Obi-Wan Kenobi.

* * *


	9. This is the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: For canonical character death (Satine). I'm sorry.

* * *

**THIS IS THE WAY**

Korkie Kryze is running. 

_Not in the halls, not in the halls,_ he hears the voice of his aunt ( _his mother_ , now. She had confessed it) calling out to him. But he runs anyway.

_Some decorum, Master Kryze_ , says the Almec in his head. _You are a kih’alor now._ Still he runs. 

_Some respect_ , says Pre Viszla, his voice thick with disgust. _Some respect for the history of your people, boy._

_Some peace, little Kryze,_ says Gar Saxon, and Korkie feels his blood pour hot over his brow, and sees it stain the joints of Saxon’s gauntlet. _Surrender. Ibic cuyir te ara._

His lungs heave, and he runs as fast as he can.

He runs as though the huin’dush of Concordia were at his heels, but he knows they are what await him as he races to his doom, and dreams of the hallways of his childhood.

The floors of Sundari were always polished to a perfect shine, so smooth and sleek that looking over them was like looking over an ocean of dead calm. He could see his face in the reflection of the tiles, and if he squinted and tilted his head, the stone would turn to glass and he could almost believe that there were fathoms of water beneath his feet. Beneath the dome of the city, the earth and the sky were made of the same thing.

He used to take off his shoes, and stand in his stockings, slipping and sliding over the floors like an ice dancer on Krownest. With no one watching, he’d start to run, building momentum before locking his legs and gliding, his arms out for balance, his heart pounding, and holding back his laughter ever conscious of drawing the attention of the guards who dogged his every step. 

Once, when he was very young, his Aunt ( _his mother, his mother, his mother)_ , had persuaded him from the nursery with the promise of a special treat, and he had gone eagerly, affections as quickly gained and lost as any child with the memory of only kindness. She had brought him here, to these halls, broken her own rules, and shown him how to skate. He remembers the way her dress tickled his skin, the fabric soft, and feather light, crumpled in his fist as he held on to her for dear life. He remembers her hair falling across her face, her smile, her eyes, turning back, reaching back for him. He remembers the way she smelled, as she held him close, so he wouldn’t fall - like sunlight, and flowers, and salt. He remembers the way she looked at him then, when their play time was done, the way she’d swept his hair back from his forehead, damp with sweet, childish sweat. Her wild grin of delight had turned soft, and marvelous as though she stood in the presence of something impossibly divine. She took his hand, and kissed his brow, and said, “Te goyust cuyir munit, ner Kiorkicek, a ibic cuyir te ara.”

And he’d nodded and said, “Ibic cuyir te ara.”

He doesn’t remember what happened next. He doesn’t remember if she laughed, or cried, if he got pudding, or if they went to the park, but he remembers that the sun shone through the dome, and past the buildings, and poured through the windows behind her -

The windows, which lie smashed, and shattered now, crunching beneath the beat of his feet, slipping like sand, and slowing him down.

Down the hall, and past the windows, he comes to the investiture chamber, and darts by. 

He’d stood there as a boy, under the glare of Prime Minister Almec, and taken the most vicious tongue lashing of his life. He’d only just completed his first semester at the Academy, and his marks, his performance, his behaviour had not been up to the exacting standards of his Aunt’s minister. 

“You are a princeling, now,” he’d said. “There are expectations of you. You are a public figure. You are an example. The people look to you for guidance, and what do you give them? A spoiled brat.”

The floor had shimmered beneath his feet, the gloss wavering in the dim light of the room. 

“You have been capricious, and selfish, and demonstrated the very worst of what a dynastic leader can be. You have proved the naysayers right. You have fuelled the fears of the centrists, and have shaken the faithful. You have disappointed your people, and what’s more, you have disappointed your Aunt.”

He bowed his head, and blinked, and the floor blurred and shimmered again. Almec’s tone softened.

“You may think I am being unfair, Kiorkicek, or overreacting. But you are the hope of our people, just as your Aunt is our foundation. It is a heavy burden, but it _must_ be borne. Ibic cuyir te ara.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” he’d agreed. “Ibic cuyir te ara.”

He thinks of Almec now, again, and wonders if he’s still alive, and wonders if he deserves to be, and wonders if he understands how thoroughly and completely he has let down their people. How hopeless they are. How lost.

But the investiture chamber is behind him, and he knows his way from here. The twists and turns of the palace are so familiar as to be instinct. He does not think. He follows his feet, and the pulse of his heart, and the breath of his lungs, and lets them pull him faster, and faster to where he needs to be. 

He remembers when the night burned, and he woke knowing he was alone, and his _mother_ needed him. He remembers racing through these rooms like wildfire, desperate to find her, and only finding her absence. But Bo-Katan had found him. He had no real memories of her, only vague images that may or may not be imagined. His mother had spoken of her. Not often, but enough that Korkie knew of her, and knew she was gone, and that it pained Satine, still. He kept those wistful looks, and distant smiles, and from them conjured the image of the woman who’d come to him, and offered him an escape.

But he had refused. Instead, he’d gone to Viszla alone, and unarmed.

He’d humbled himself. He’d tried to bargain for the release of Satine. He’d appealed to a gentler nature, a kinder grace. He’d tried to negotiate a peace. Pre Viszla had hated him for it. 

“Get up off your knees, boy,” Pre spat. “And don’t grovel. Have some respect for the history of your people. Never beg. Ibic cuyir te ara.”

And so, he fought.

“Ibic cuyir te ara,” he vowed.

He’d returned to Bo-Katan, and even though he hadn’t trusted her then, and he doesn’t trust her now, he’d done as she said, and he’d followed her, and they had freed his mother, and he’d lead her through the city, and had her back, and -

He’s still running to her, even now. He’s always running, and he knows he’s nearly there.

The air around him tightens in his lungs, something electric spinning in the wake of his passage, as though the whole atmosphere stands upon the precipice of ignition, waiting for a spark. Waiting for him. She’s waiting for him.

And at last, he finds her.

Through the grand windows of stained claricrystalline, and by the light of distant ships, he sees her. She kneels beside her throne, and a monster sits upon it. Before them, a man painted for the love of a parent, is bowed in supplication. 

Korkie reaches out. She is so close.

And then, as though by magic, as though by the force of his own desire, she is swept through the air towards him, like a leaf spun out upon a breeze.

And then, she stops.

And then, she falls.

And then, she dies.

A cold wind courses through him, and strips away his flesh, and muscles, and bones, until all that is left is the marrow, bitter and heavy. He cannot move, for he has no legs. He cannot hear, for he has no ears. He cannot breathe, for he has no lungs. He cannot see. The foundation of Mandalore trembles beneath his feet, and he sways. Everything is dark. This is the end.

His mother.

And then…

He wakes in the arms of someone wearing beskar’gam. It is red, like blood, but it cannot be his because he feels so light, so insubstantial. There is no blood left within him, and so he cannot be bleeding. His mother...she died in the arms of a man in red beskar. Perhaps, he is dying with her.

There is a voice, whispering in his ear, stroking his face, and holding him close.

“Sh, sh,” it says. “There, there. Don’t cry. Don’t worry. You are safe now. I have you.”

“No,” cries Korkie, his voice like broken sticks. “My mother, my mother -”

He rails against the arms which bind him, and the voice which he knows but cannot place.

“Surrender,” it says. “Udesii, udesii. Gaanader naak. Your mother is dead. Your aunt is a traitor, and the Jedi has left without you. But I am here, little Kryze. I am here, and I will protect you. As long as you do _exactly_ as I say. Ibic cuyir te ara”

And in the arms of Gar Saxon, he stills. His race is run, and Korkie, at last, gives in. 

His lips move, but no sound comes out. “Ibic cuyir te ara,” he concedes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> kih’alor... "little ruler"; like a minor lord, or prince. A courtesy title.  
> "Te goyust cuyir munit, ner Kiorkicek, a ibic cuyir te ara"... "The road is long, my Kiorkicek, but this is the way."  
> "Ibic cuyir te ara"... "This is the way."  
> "Udesii, udesii. Gaanader naak"... "Relax, relax. Choose peace."


	10. The Punishment of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for the prompt from  treescape  who asked what would happen if Obi-Wan had taken Korkie back with him from Mandalore after Satine's death. I said, "Well, at the very least it would force him and Anakin to talk to each other, and maybe stop the whole Fall of the Republic from happening."
> 
> And she said, "They won't talk."
> 
> And I said, "I'LL SHOW YOU!"
> 
> But then, she was right.
> 
> I tried.

**_THE PUNISHMENT OF SILENCE_ **

* * *

She throws him on a ship, and says “This one’s yours,” and they’re already away by the time he comprehends she meant the pilot on board with him. 

He’s pale to the point of imagination, and trembling - a reflection of how Obi-Wan imagines he himself must look, bloodless and haunted. His eyes seem hollowed out from the shadows between stars, his hair lank and lifeless, his mouth a jagged streak of blood cut straight across his face as though his jaw has been neatly bisected, his tongue cut out, and silence fills the space between them.

But he steps away from the controls at Obi-Wan’s approach.

He says nothing to the boy as he staggers to the pilot’s seat, and straps himself in. He hears the sounds of violent retching being pulled, and pulled, and then replaced with shattered breathing, and he spares him a glance to shout, “Do you know how to man the cannons on this ship?”

The boy lifts his head. His hair has tumbled out of its militant lines to hang over his eyes like some wild thing hunted. 

“The cannons,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Can you use them?”

The boy nods.

“Then do so,” Obi-Wan says, turning his attention back to the front. They are approaching the edge of the atmosphere, but are still trailing the most dedicated of their enemy’s pilots behind them. He feints left, then swings back to the right, trying to shake their aim as his companion slides into the gunner’s seat, and places his hands on the controls.

A strange look falls over his face then - something cool, and placid - and Obi-Wan too feels himself steady. He ceases to think of the sweat trickling down his brow, or the ache between his shoulders, or the pounding of his heart. Instead, he is flying. They are buoyed by the wind, then freed of atmospheric friction, and at last, with a contemptuous spit of the cannons, loosed from their pursuers and the strangling grip of Mandalore.

Without thought, Obi-Wan primes the hyperdrive, sets a course for Coruscant, and presses them into the stars. The ship resists for a moment, unwilling to let go of the planet, but soon gives in, and they are thrown into the cosmic whirlpool of hyperspace where time and place fall silent. 

And Obi-Wan can think.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“It’s Korkie. I’m Korkie,” the boy gasps, his hands falling away from the console and his calm with it. “Kiorkicek Kryze. My mother - my aunt…”

He shakes his head, his mouth still open but his voice has broken into absence.

“Your mother?” Obi-Wan says. “Bo-Katan? She wanted you off the planet -”

But Korkie shakes his head harder. He swallows. He swallows again, still gaping. 

“My mother - she died. I saw - I tried to save her. I tried to help - she said you’d help her.”

He feels a creeping numbness spreading from his joints, like muscles stiffening in the wake of a blaster’s stun.

“Satine,” he says, knowing and yet unsure. “Satine is your mother.”

“Yes,” Korkie says. “We were going to leave together. She said - we’d leave together when you came.”

“Your father -?”

“No.” It falls from him like a single tear, stifled before the onslaught of grief.

_This one’s yours,_ she’d said.

“No,” whispers Obi-Wan in kind.

And then Korkie is crying, desperate, greedy torrents of grief that stutter out between his teeth like laughter. He presses a hand to his mouth, and wraps an arm about his middle to barricade the doors, but they are flung open, and the vacuum of his heart is filled by loud, rushing sobs. 

Obi-Wan barely hears him, caught instead listening to the voices of the past. Bo-Katan’s. Satine’s. Qui-Gon’s. He unbuckles the straps from his waist, and his shoulders, and slips from his seat to stand. 

“I...I need to change,” he says. “You should get some rest. We’ll hit planetfall in about six hours.”

This ship is unfamiliar, but equally unimaginative in its design, and so he stumbles to the fresher without effort. The room is warm, but there is no comfort in sonics the way there is in a shower. There is no rhythm of water beating out its rage upon your skin, at first soothing, then numbing, then painful in its insistence. There is no cleansing fall of rain, no slick of wet across your skin, no satisfying whirlpool of dirt and grit spinning out of sight down the drain. Instead, the detritus of battle falls from your body, settling like the dust of memory upon the floor.

He steps out of the fresher, and feels no different.

The cockpit is abandoned when he returns, and the galley too, and he thinks perhaps, somehow, he is alone again in space.

He presses his hand against the door to the officer’s quarters, and it slides open with a gust of wind. Inside, curled atop the coarse coverlet of an unforgiving bunk, Korkie Kryze lies asleep. His hands are tucked beneath his arms, and his knees drawn up as if he’s cold, but he does not shiver. He barely breathes. In his stillness, Obi-Wan studies him.

There is familiarity in his expression, his brow furrowed, plagued by worry even in dreams, his hair swept across his forehead. The slope of his nose. The bow of his lips, though the bottom one is red and raw as though he habitually frets at it. There is a deep, purple bloom around the orbit of his left eye, and the cracked seal of broken skin like the stain of a fist upon his cheek. Obi-Wan touches his own cheek, as though the blow might be reflected there as well, but it is smooth. His own injuries lie elsewhere.

For a moment, he debates waking the boy, debates ordering him to wash and dress, but he can’t think of seeing her again, or himself, or whichever ghost might be looking back at him from behind those eyes. So instead, he unfolds the spare blanket at the end of the bed, provided to compensate for the chill of deep space, and lays it gently atop the sleeping form.

He spends the rest of the trip in the cockpit staring out at the stars, and thinking of absolutely nothing at all.

They land on Coruscant in the middle of a beautiful day, and Anakin is there to meet him. 

“Another Council sanctioned secret?” he spits, as Obi-Wan stumbles down the ramp. “Another noble cause? What have you done with my ship?”

“I’m sorry,” says Obi-Wan, as Ahsoka shoulders her master aside to wrap Obi-Wan in a fierce embrace.

“We were worried,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

She pulls away, or he does, and her eyes catch on movement behind him.

“Korkie?” Her voice rises with surprise.

The boy still wears the grey uniform of his insurgency, though it is bloodied and torn, and he hangs over himself with his arms clasped around his middle as though to keep from spilling across the docks. He looks up at Ahsoka’s call, and blinks in the light of the day.

She leaves Obi-Wan, and he falters as she goes, moving to catch Korkie as he falls apart in her arms.

“You went to _Mandalore_?” Anakin asks, his voice threaded with outrage at this hypocrisy.

“I had to,” Obi-Wan says. “I had to.”

“Where’s Satine?” demands Ahsoka, from a distance. “Where’s his aunt?”

“Dead.”

Ahsoka is the first to recover.

“We should take him to the Halls, master,” she says, appealing to an Anakin still frozen in scrutinizing his own master. “I think his arm is broken, and his eye -” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Obi-Wan feels the focus levelled upon him strain and snap like an elastroband. “Let’s do that.”

They move slowly, up the steps, through the hangar, and past the minor customs and hazard authorities, and through the grand hallways of the Temple. Ahoska keeps her arm around Korkie’s waist, and lets him lean upon her, limping with exhaustion. Beside him, Obi-Wan can feel Anakin hovering close, but not touching, as though one or both of them might shatter with contact. He doesn’t reach out, and he is unaware of anything else until they come to the Halls of Healing and are ushered inside.

Then it is all confusion.

Korkie is pulled away from Ahsoka with a small cry as his arm is jostled, and probing fingers are pressed to his cheek. He grips Ahsoka’s hand in his own, and holds on as she tells the healers the little bit she has managed to glean since their arrival. The healers, unsatisfied, ask question after question about Mandalore, about his injuries, about the time since their occurence. They ask what hurts, and where, and how they happened. They ask if this was a fist, or a stick, or the back of a blade. They ask if he fell, or was pushed. They ask if there’s anything else, anything more, anything he’s hiding from them.

And Bant is there, too.

He can tell by the faint scent of deep sea salt, and the coolness of her hands upon his skin as she turns his face from the chaos of Korkie’s arrival to focus on her, and her alone.

“What about you?” she asks. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” he mutters, the words habitual though no sound comes to fill them with weight.

She shines a light in his eyes, and he winces, turning away.

“A concussion,” she says. “At least. And what else?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine. What about -?”

“He’s being taken care of,” she replies. “Now, let us do the same for you.”

The little light goes back in her pocket, and she takes him by the hand like a child. He goes with her, willingly, casting only one look back to find Anakin, watching him as always, as he is led away.

* * *

The room she takes him to is small, and white, and the door shuts behind her keeping back the world with it. She guides him to sit upon a little bed that reminds him of the one he once had in Qui-Gon’s quarters, but when she puts her hands on his shoulders to lay him flat, he gasps, and resists.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice calm. “That’s okay, you don’t have to lie down. Just look at me, okay? And we’re going to figure this out. Yes?”

He nods. He trusts her. “Yes.”

“Now, we know about the concussion. Can you tell me if you were hit, or struck by anything?”

“I fell out of a ship,” he says, and to her credit, Bant doesn’t even pause between this question and the next.

“Were you alone?”

“No. I was with Satine. We were shot down. The ship fell, and we had to evacuate.”

The way he says it, the way he looks in this moment...Bant remembers how it was when he first came home from Mandalore, and she pulls a stool close to sit as near him as possible.

“Where is Satine now?”

He inhales sharply, the breath catching on his teeth, and tears still trapped deep in his chest.

“Do you know, I think I’m rather tired? I’d like to return to my quarters, now.”

“Obi-Wan -”

“I’d like to return to my room.”

“I know,” says Bant, taking his hand in hers. “I’m just going to give you a quick check over to make sure you’re not bleeding out anywhere, right? We know that’s very much a possibility with you, don’t we?” She smiles, trying to nudge him into something safe and familiar.

Very briefly, he smiles back, and relents. “Alright.”

“So,” she continues, pulling a holochart from a nearby drawer. “When you fell out of the ship, how did you land?”

“Badly.”

“Like how?”

“I hit my shoulder. I rolled. I tried to protect -”

But Bant cuts him off before he is strangled by memory.

“Okay, your shoulder, your ribs. How do your hips feel?”

“Fine,” he says. “I could walk after. I could run.”

“Your arms?”

“I don’t know.”

She sets her chart and stylus aside. “Can I see?” she asks.

He shrugs, but makes no objection when she reaches for the thick layer of a Mandalorian flight shirt that shrouds his torso. She lifts from the hem, and pulls the fabric upwards. His arms ache as they are drawn above his shoulders, and the high neck of the collar squeezes some colour back into his cheeks. He flinches in the chill of the room, and Bant apologises, pulling a pale green blanket across his back.

She frowns as she examines the markings upon his skin.

“Obi-Wan, that must’ve been some fall.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She doesn’t acknowledge this as she prods at him with impossibly soft, webbed fingers, frowning and tutting at each wince and grimace she elicits from him. 

“You’ve got some broken ribs,” she announces. “Some deep bruising. Let me see your hands.”

He gives her his left, and then his right when the first passes inspection. The second is not so lucky.

“This your saber hand?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve two broken fingers here,” she says. “Do you remember that happening?”

“No.”

“And bruising. Like a boot. Did someone step on your hand?”

“I don’t know.”

She taps the end of each, and he tries not to cry out, suddenly aware of the pain flaring there.

“The good news is, you’ve not lost any feeling,” she says. “The bad news is, you’re going to need a dip. I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.”

“I don’t want bacta.”

“I know, but that concussion alone needs more sustained treatment if you don’t want to end up with some significant issues. And your hand…”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulling his hand away to hide it in the folds of the blanket. “You said I could go back to my rooms.”

“You know I didn’t,” she says. She knows him. She knows this dance, even if the steps are heavier and more fatigued than normal. She does not rise to his bait. She waits him out.

At last, his shoulders heave and droop, and he gives in. 

“Where’s Anakin?” he asks.

“Probably outside, half hysterical with worry by now,” she says.

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Where’s Korkie?”

“Who’s that?”

“The boy who came with me. He’s Satine’s - he’s Satine’s…”

She hesitates, not wanting to guess, but by his struggle she thinks the answer can only be one thing.

“Her son?”

He nods, a wordless gasp of distress breaking free of him. She wants to lean forward, to embrace him, but he’s still so distant that she knows he would not let her. So instead, Bant puts her hand upon his head, and strokes his hair over and over again from his crown to the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know she’d found someone else.”

But that’s not it. He shakes his head vehemently, as he clutches the blanket closer, and grits out a reply which Bant could not have anticipated no matter how many years of friendship lay between them.

“She didn’t,” he says. “He’s mine.”

And with that confession tumbling free, so too, comes grief, like huge rolling waves pulling him under, and spinning him upwards until he is disoriented and gasping for air. She doesn’t wait, now, instead reaching out to gather him in her arms, giving him something to hold onto, as the tides of anguish rise and rise, and eventually fall, and him with them, into a deep, exhausted sleep.

She eases him back onto the pallet, pulling the cover high, and dims the lights. 

In Admittance, she inputs her data into the medcomp, and makes a recommendation for immediate bacta immersion. Her face is somber, and stoic, showing nothing of what she feels or thinks of this turn of events. She doesn’t quite know, herself, in any case.

Anakin is waiting, his elbows braced upon his knees, one leg bouncing, standing out like a bruise against the ceramplast white of the hall.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?” he demands, rising to meet her as soon as she steps away from the monitor.

“Asleep,” she says. “We’re waiting on a dip. Where’s Korkie?”

“Ahsoka’s with him,” he says. “Did he tell you about the Duchess?”

“He did.”

Anakin nods. She watches as his jaw clenches, and the muscles there leap as he chews up the marrow of his thoughts.

“Kriffing idiot,” he spits. “I would have gone with him, if he’d asked.”

“Does he know that?”

“He _should_ ,” Anakin insists. “But he doesn’t trust me.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, great job,” Anakin says, a bark of laughter punctuating his words. It rings through the vaulted ceilings of the hall, a clarion of upset. “Now _he’s_ hurt, and his girlfriend is dead.”

“Anakin!”

But Anakin’s outrage is mounting, and gathering like an Alderaanian storm falling off the mountains.

“Oh, don’t defend him,” he says. “Don’t pretend this isn’t on _him_ , because it is. Just like the Hardeen thing. It was _his_ choice to go alone. It was _his_ choice to turn his back on us. It was _his_ choice to leave me behind. I don’t feel sorry for him, Master Eerin. I don’t. He’s done this himself.”

Bant stares at him. She says nothing. She only waits until the impact of his words rebound from the blank slate of her response and fall back on him. She waits for him to hear himself, and she knows he does when his mechanical hand forms a fist, and his shoulders turn him acutely away from her gaze. Anakin sighs, his voice turning soft, his words clipped short.

“Just comm me when he’s out of bacta,” he says. He stalks out of the Halls without a backward glance.

Bant sighs, her guard dropping just in time for her to hear the soft click of another door closing from behind her. She turns with an admonition on her lips. If Obi-Wan has roused himself to chase after his padawan, he’ll have no help from her.

But instead, it is Anakin’s padawan she meets.

“Master Eerin?” she calls, slipping out of the room behind her. “Did Anakin talk to you about Obi-Wan?”

Bant frowns, then turns a rueful eye on Ahsoka, a smile twisting at her lips.

“In a manner of speaking,” she says.

“Oh,” says Ahsoka. “He’s still mad about the Rako Hardeen incident.”

“So I gathered,” says Bant. She flicks through pages of data on her holochart, idly reminding herself of the litany of abuse Obi-Wan had come to her with following that particular debacle so recently ago. 

Ahsoka watches her intently, her head cocked. She runs her hands nervously over a lekku before she speaks again. “Aren’t you still mad?” she asks.

“No,” says Bant, looking at her again, and seeing only youth where the Republic sees a Commander. 

“Why not?”

“A healer learns only to be grateful when someone comes back from death,” she says. “It doesn’t happen often enough to grow bitter for it.”

Ahsoka nods, and frowns again. It is clear that there is more she’d say, and more she’s considered in the weeks following Obi-Wan’s undercover mission. Things that she cannot say to her master, who is still angry, or to Obi-Wan who is still too lost to guide anyone with authority. So Bant sets her chart aside, and sits against the wall, gesturing for Ahsoka to join her.

“I wish they’d talk,” she says, as she drops into the seat next to Bant. “I mean, they _do_ talk. We had that whole mission to Onderon, and everything was fine. I mean, mostly. But then...why wouldn’t Master Obi-Wan have come to us?”

“I don’t know, Ahsoka,” says Bant. “But I do know it was never meant as a slight against _you_. Whatever is between Obi-Wan and your master has nothing to do with how Obi-Wan feels about you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve known Obi-Wan since the creche, and I can tell you: he’s _always_ been like this.”

Ahsoka is silent for a moment, considering this, but before her contemplation can slide into brooding, Bant intervenes, tapping her forearm with the stylus to draw her back to the present.

“What about that young man you carried in here? Korkie, was it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s the Duchess’ nephew. We worked together the last time I was on Mandalore. The Prime Minister was establishing a black market, and he helped catch him.”

“By yourselves?” she asks, caught somewhere between surprise and a familiar chagrin.

“Well, with friends,” she says. “And his Aunt.”

“Sounds like a good kid,” says Bant, then laughs at Ahsoka’s grimace of distaste. “Tell me about him.”

“Oh, I don’t know him that well,” she replies. “He was really interested in the Jedi when we met, though. Kept asking about the Temple, and lightsabers, and Jedi philosophy. He’d mentioned something about Master Seva once, but I don’t remember enough about the Old Age philosophers to know what he meant.”

“I suppose philosophy and literature classes have somewhat fallen by the wayside in the past couple years,” Bant says. 

“I guess,” says Ahsoka. “But I don’t think I’d have time to write essays while in the middle of a dogfight, you know?”

“Tell me,” she says, pushing just a little further than is probably wise. “Did Korkie ever mention anything about his father?”

“No,” says Ahsoka. “Just that the Duchess was like a mother to him. That she raised him, and he grew up mostly in the palace. I assume he’s an orphan. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Or maybe it’s too painful to talk about. I didn’t ask.”

“No, no,” Bant assures her, patting her hand fondly. “Of course not. Do you think he’d mind if I went in to visit him?”

“Korkie? He was asleep when I left.”

“That’s for the best. I just want to give him a quick check up. Make sure nothing was missed. You’d better go after your master - make sure he doesn’t blow up something we can’t replace.”

Ahsoka smiles at that, and springs to her feet eager to be directed towards some useful task.

“You mean himself,” she says. “Anything else he could probably fix.”

“Or improve.”

“Or that!” Ahsoka agrees, laughing now. She gives Bant a quick bow, then exits the hall with a quick, and sturdy step while Bant slips silently into the room at her back.

It’s quiet inside, the air is warm, and it may as well be the same room she’d vacated earlier for all the similarity of the figure on the bed. He looks like Obi-Wan - the way she remembers him. He looks like he did in those in-between years of childhood and adolescence. His hair follows the same line, his brow furrows the same way, and in the soft light she takes a small sample of his blood and confirms that which she already knew for sure.

* * *

He's there waiting when Obi-Wan wakes. He sits at his bedside, and watches as he rises up through the fathoms of sleep, buoyed to the surface by piercing shafts of light, like a diver on Mon Cala. Anakin can feel his muscles twitch as consciousness returns in the dry warmth of the palm pressed flush against his own.

“What time is it?” Obi-Wan asks, blinking him into focus.

“It’s late,” he replies.

Obi-Wan relaxes, his head rolling back to settle against his pillow. “You should go to bed,” he says, and Anakin huffs with laughter.

“We’re way beyond that, old man.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, and that’s just so typical that Anakin smirks.

“I’m fine," he says.

“Good.”

“Are you?”

The pleasant warmth of drowsiness is stripped away in his next breath, and Anakin can feel the air turn so cold that it raises gooseflesh across his arms, and freezes against Obi-Wan’s lips. His fingers flex against the sheets, and Anakin’s hand tightens in response, keeping him there when he’d rather turn away.

“Don’t -” he warns, but Anakin doesn’t listen. He never does.

“You were in bacta for three days,” he says. “You could have died. All because you couldn’t bear to come to me first. To ask me. To _trust_ me.”

“I do trust you, Anakin.”

“Don’t lie to me, too,” he says. 

“It’s the truth,” he swears. “I couldn’t - The Council -”

“I don’t care what the Council said,” Anakin protests. “I would have come for _you,_ master.”

Obi-Wan blinks rapidly up at the lights overhead. Anakin can feel as he grasps clumsily at the insubstantial wisps of the Force, cloudy and distant with sedation, and grips his hand more firmly still. He, at least, is solid.

“What of Korkie?” Obi-Wan asks, at last.

Anakin slides his hand free.

“The kid? He’s fine. A little beat up, but nothing a couple of bacta patches and some bone knitters couldn’t fix. Ahsoka’s with him now.”

“Good,” says Obi-Wan, his breaths coming more and more easily. “That’s good.”

Anakin licks his lips, and sits forward, accepting of but not resigned to the fact that he will never get an admission from Obi-Wan that isn’t first willingly proposed. He knows this. It’s fine. They can talk about the kid.

“Why’d you bring him?” he asks. “What happened on Mandalore?”

“There was a coup,” says Obi-Wan in a tone like the salt flats of the Jundland Wastes. “Satine fell, and her government was usurped.”

“By who?”

“Maul.”

Anakin spits a curse like acid, but Obi-Wan scarcely seems to note it. Instead, he keeps talking as though Maul is the least of his story.

“But he wasn’t alone,” he says. “He had his brother. And Death Watch turned the people. The city was lost. I only meant to get her out.”

“And Korkie.”

“I took him because his aunt told me to.”

“Satine did?”

“She’s not his aunt,” his master says, the admission coming like a weary sigh. “She’s his mother, and I...he’s my son.”

There are many things that Anakin feels in this moment. There is a nasty, vindictive kind of ache that licks at his throat like flames when he hears that Maul had brought his own brother, while Obi-Wan had not. There is sorrow for the Duchess, and righteous indignation on her behalf at the perfidy of her people. There is a whipping cyclone of confusion and disbelief as Obi-Wan refers to a second woman whom Anakin doesn’t know, and then a son he’s already met, but who should be impossible. And an anger as this settles in, and he realises the depth of his master’s betrayal.

“Your son,” he repeats, and Obi-Wan only nods. He rises, having nothing more and far too much to say, and palms open the door. He spares Obi-Wan only a single moment from the threshold. “You should have told me,” he says.

And Obi-Wan, still gazing at the ceiling, still gripping the pleats of bed sheets in his hand, just shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”

* * *


	11. Led By the Wandering Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For lightasthesun who wanted to know what came next. While most of these one shots are unrelated, this one is a direct continuation of Away the Vapour Flew (chapter one in this collection)

_**LED BY THE WANDERING LIGHT** _

* * *

It starts with a very little thing: a seed.

It is slipped from the glove of a Republic aid trooper who smiles as he passes it over.

“From the General of the 212th,” he says. “Don’t know what it is, but I damn near lost the thing on the way over.” 

“For me?” he asks, and the man nods, his grin growing wider.

Then he leans in as though commiserating with a friend. “Jetiise sha’bise, lek?”

“Elek,” agrees Korkie, dubiously, turning the little living pebble between his fingers.

The trooper grins, and gives him a friendly shove before trotting off back to his ship. Korkie has come down on his aunt’s behalf to oversee the relief efforts, but he is distracted by the seed in his hand. It is flat, and furry, and pleasingly plump. If he squeezes it, he can feel the skin relent and rebound, and if he digs in his nail ever so gently, he can feel the taste of water upon his thumb, and see the pale blush of springtime in the depths of the cut. It is a seed of something, he knows, but of what?

He places it in the breast pocket of his Academy jacket, and turns his attention back to the work. It is an impressive, and important sight, but his thoughts linger on the seed, and he feels it sit bright and eager against his heart.

Later, when the supplies have been unloaded, and the aid troopers seen off, when the ceremony of thanks and assurances of neutrality have all been displayed, when he is back in his room at Sundari only hours away from the magtrain ride back to school, he plants the seed in a little pot of black earth, and dampens the soil. It will not grow tonight, but he cannot help but stare at it anyway, waiting in the dark, beneath the stars, so patient.

* * *

A week passes, and he is back at the Academy when the mail officer - an upperclassman he’s never met - stops at his place during first meal.

“Su-su, Kryze!” he calls. “A package for you from the Core.”

A small bundle wrapped in layer upon layer of bonding tape, and stamped with the ink of a hundred spaceports too numerous and cramped to decipher lands upon his lap. He uses the thin knife from his plate to slice through the plastifibe envelope. 

When his fingers graze the object within he gasps, and pulls back the wrap to reveal a real, proper book. It’s not even printed on flimsi, he notes, cracking the aged spine and letting the pages fall open, but on actual paper. They don’t make these in the Core, and hardly ever in the Mid Rim, it’s just not economical, and most planets don’t have the resources to spare. But this one is old, it’s pages creased, and worn smooth at the corners with the turning of many fingers. It is about horticulture, though the illustrations of green and growing things have faded to browns and burnished golds. It is beautiful. 

A piece of dried grass has been tucked between two pages, and when Korkie folds them back to look he sees an image of the seed he’d sown in the pot by his bed. Beside it, a riotous bouquet of blossoms burst in an array of different colours. It is a _daesyn_ flower.

He tucks the book in his kebisebag, and carries it around for the rest of the day. At nightfall, he takes it out with careful reverence, turning the pages back to the daesyn slowly lest they tear or turn to dust. Then, by the light of a little glowrod, he props the book against his window and reads along as he tends to the small green sprout only just peeking through the soil.

He buys a sun lamp, and a watermeter, and adjusts the temperature of his quarters much to Amis’ chagrin, determined to provide the most optimal growing conditions he can for the little plant.

* * *

After a month, the seedling has become a sturdy sprout, with prickly leaves of a green so deep it might be blue. He is attempting to commit those variegated lines to flimsi when Amis returns to their quarters, a small pouch swinging from his hand.

“I’m supposed to give this to you,” he says, tossing the pouch. Korkie reacts without thinking, snatching the bag out of the air before it can hit the ground.

“Who’s it from?”

“Front desk. Said some high up Republic alor sent it.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t ask, did I? Too busy polishing the silver.”

Korkie grimaces in sympathy, having spent many an afternoon of his first year cleaning the trophy case in the main hall. He thinks that Amis’ plight could be easily avoided if only he behaved himself, but refrains from saying so to his friend.

Instead, he pulls the drawstring at the top of the purse, and turns it over his hand. A dozen discs of coloured glass tumble into his palm. They are thick, and smooth, though not polished by anything but time. Each is a different colour, though some are struck through with shimmers of gold and silver. 

“What’s that?” asks Amis over his shoulder.

“Don’t know,” he echoes. The glass feels comfortable in his grip. Made to be held, and carried, and passed from hand to hand.

“Should ask Lagos,” says Amis. “That seems like her kind of thing.”

He makes no reply to Amis, but of course, he does as he suggests. Lagos is, after all, a walking encyclopaedia, and of all their friends the most likely to at least have an idea of where to start looking.

The excitement on her face when Korkie shows her his hoard tells him she has more than an idea - she _knows_.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she gasps. “Where’d you find Abafar trading beads?”

“They were a gift,” he replies. “What are they for?”

She picks them up one at a time and holds them to the light. By some trick of their design, they cast no shadow, but seem to capture the rays inside like banked embers, or twisting prisms. The ones marked with ribbons of ore grow warm in her hand, and she presses them to his cheek so he can feel their heat.

“They’re the traditional currency of Abafar,” she explains. “It’s a desert planet in the Outer Rim, and craftsmen in the Void used to make these beads as a means of facilitating trade over great distances. Metal was scarce, and the beads could also be used to retain heat for longer - that one in your hand could keep the warmth of the sun all night, if you wanted it to.”

He considers the disc of deep indigo, and holds it up to the sun until it turns red. The glass seems to have become molten, but its warmth is not painful in the hand. He leaves the bead out for the rest of the afternoon to test Lagos’ theory, and brings it into bed with him at night. Tucked beneath his pillow, it radiates a soothing heat, and he feels his muscles relax and his worries melt as he drifts away into an easy slumber.

* * *

The next gift he receives is shattered into bits.

“Sorry, kid,” says the attendant at the delivery depot when he arrives to claim his parcel. “Happens sometimes with these packages from the front. The war is not a safe place for fragile things. Bic cuyir meg bic cuyir.”

He takes the present anyway, carrying it delicately back to the Academy, fearful of breaking it further. When he finally tears through the tape and plastifibe, clay and ceramplast pieces give up any pretense at form and clatter over the surface of his desk.

It was beautiful once, he can tell. Perhaps a bowl or a cup turned by hand - he can see the telltale print of a foreign finger pressed into a section of naked clay - but now it is only fragments and dust.

Still, he hovers over the pile, turning the pieces this way and that, trying to see how they fit together. He doesn’t notice when sixth bell rings, or when Soniee pings his comm, or when Amis sneaks in past curfew and turns out his light. He stays up late into the night, until the form takes shape, and through the cracks and crevasses of painted clay dawn creeps in.

It is an amphoriskos. A small vessel for storing precious oils, like the kind used in the rituals of so many traditional peoples. There is none in it now, and Korkie retrieves the sachet to see if perhaps it was spilled into the weave of the plastifibe wrap. But it is dry. And the clay, when he looks at it more closely, is dry and unstained by use. The gift was always empty.

The shards sit upon his desk in their loose arrangement until, one afternoon, Amis moves to sweep them off into the dustbin.

“No, no!” protests Korkie, before Amis can complete the task. “I want to keep it.”

“What for?” his friend asks. “It’s broken.”

“I don’t know yet.”

He collects the bits of amphoriskos into his hands, and arranges them about the base of his daesyn pot. The paint glints in the light, and so too do the Abafar beads nestled amidst the debris. The plant grows green and bushy, its leaves reaching out to skim the rim of its bed as though a swimmer poised on the edge of emersion.

* * *

  
He receives Theelin singing strings wound tight around a holodrive meant for the Duchess, paired basalt spindles from Hapes, seashells from the deep oceans of Mon Cala, and a set of Lateron hoops carried on the wrist of the visiting senator from Naboo.

“From Master Kenobi,” she says, and she smiles at him with a warmth that feels like family. He wonders if they’ve met before, if he should know her, but she moves along with the entourage of press and government officials before he can ask.

He is home for Holyrod month, and has brought his prizes with him carried along specially in his kebisebag, his daesyn in his hands. He sets them out along the windowsill in his rooms at Sundari. The watchet blues and greens of crystalline filtered light play over his collection, illuminating one after the other in joyous turn. He does not know what they mean, or why his father has sent these particular things to him, but they are all precious, and he longs for a way to display his gratitude for the thought he has been spared.

The daesyn itself revels in its new surroundings, and leans close to the glass to get as close a view of the sun as it can, budding with imminent delight.

* * *

  
The Senator from Naboo is called Padme, he discovers when he is introduced to her again at mealtime. And she has not come alone. She is part of a delegation of foreign ambassadors, all from the Republic, but not all, Korkie suspects, as enthusiastic about the Chancellor as they had once been. There are murmurings and whispers amongst them, hurried out between thin lips and caught only in the corner of his eye, or the turn of his head, but whether satisfied or not, they are accompanied by the ceremonial force of the Senate, and the might of Palpatine himself - Two Jedi travel with them.

Anakin Skywalker, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He sees him through the crush of bodies, and later down the line at suppertime. In the midst of deep blues, and mauves, and furs, and silks, his earthen tunics stand out, but he is always distant, always just out of reach. All he needs is a moment, he thinks, to make sure he’s seen, so he can acknowledge his father - even in the polite, and suitably respectful language of perfect strangers if he must, but it never comes. 

The plates are cleared, the halls are emptied, and Korkie finds himself bidding his aunt (she is always his aunt here) goodnight, and wandering back to his rooms alone.

It is dark when he arrives, though by the window the Abafar beads glow like the distant lights of the city. He slips off his stiff shoes, and his raiments of clan, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. He waits, uncertain, until the knock comes again.

Perhaps his mother come to assure herself of his health and presence, as she has done so often in the past, but he opens the door to find Obi-Wan Kenobi waiting, with his hand out. In the euphoric rush of astonishment, he hastens to place his own hand upon his father’s as is customary on Stewjon, though he holds fast in a manner peculiar between children and their parents.

“Master Kenobi,” he stammers. “I did not expect you. I thought you’d left. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Obi-Wan replies. “I’d rather hoped to catch you alone, but I’m afraid our schedule was somewhat packed.”

“Of course.”

He is staring, he knows it, but he can’t seem to think of anything else to say, caught up in looking at his father and searching for all the commonalities between them. Does he tilt his head like that? Does he stroke his chin? Does he frown and smile by equal measure?

But the weight of his scrutiny is too much to bear, and Obi-Wan cracks.

“I thought to ask: did you get my gifts?”

“Yes,” says Korkie. “Thank you. They were very thoughtful.”

“Ah...And did you - did you like them?”

At this, Korkie cannot help but smile, and he shakes his father’s hand, tugging him forward with zeal.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Would you like to see?”

If he is confused by his son’s desire to reintroduce him to items he has already laboured over and seen, then he does not show it. Nor does he resist when the hand in his pulls him further into the room, and doesn’t let go even as a curtain is flung open, and a light flicked on low.

He is pulled over to the broad casements and left to bask in starlight as Korkie steps aside to reveal a colorful mobile hanging from the frame of his window.

“The amphoriskos broke,” he explains, and sees a shadow flicker in his father's eyes. “No, no,” he insists. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. But I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It was so beautiful.”

He gestures at a silver thread from which hang a variety of irregularly shaped clay shards. The shiny amber and black paint catches the light thrown by the glowing Abafar beads strung further up, and on another and another thread. When he blows on them the threads hum, and sway together, the seashells and pottery and glass clattering together like wind chimes.

“The singing strings,” notes Obi-Wan, and Korkie grins.

“And the Lateron hoops,” he says, pointing to the frame from which the strings are suspended. “And the spindles, for balance. It’s meant to hang with my window open, like it is at school. And then, at night, when the dreamwinds come, the whole thing sings, and shines, and glows like the stars.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Obi-Wan with awe. He reaches out with one hesitant finger, the beads flickering beneath his touch, and the strings murmuring the low notes of an opening phrase.

“You gave it to me,” says Korkie with a shrug, and Obi-Wan turns his awe upon his boy.

“No,” he says. “I gave you fragments, but you have made them into art. You gave them meaning. You gave them a soul.”

Korkie shifts on his feet, fretting at the cuff of his sleeve, and diving in.

“Would it be okay, do you think -” he starts, then stops. Then he starts again. “Do you think it’d be alright if I wrote you? Every once in a while.”

“Wrote me?”

“Or com’d,” he says, quickly. “Only I know you’re busy, and I can’t expect to lay claim to any of your time, not really, but I -”

“Com me,” says Obi-Wan. “Write me. Send me anything you like, but only say you will and I will have all the time for you I can spare.”

“I promise that I only want a very little.”

“If it’s mine to give it’s yours to have, Kiorkicek,” his father swears. His grip upon his hand is firm, willing him to believe him, and Korkie nods his head because he does.

They stand there, hand in hand, reading themselves in each other, and learning the other in turn, and in the glow of the stars, and the city, and the Abafar beads, the daesyn flower bursts from its roots into a riot of colour and life.

* * *

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a:
> 
> “Jetiise sha’bise”... “Jedi bullshit”  
> Lek/Elek... Yeah/Yes  
> “Su-su”... Hey!  
> “Bic cuyir meg bic cuyir.”... “It is what it is.”


	12. The Gravitational Deflection of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill!
> 
> If you still take prompts: Rumors of the Duchess of Mandalore (bc patriarchal bs and misogynistic beliefs about female leaders) potentially getting married reaches Coruscant and Obi-Wan copes as well as can be expected. Cue sad boi sadness with maybe fluff at the end? Or go full angst I’m ok with either

**_THE GRAVITATIONAL DEFLECTION OF LIGHT_ **

* * *

There is some silly, selfish part of him that he never outgrew, and like a weed in his gut it twists and writhes when he hears that the Duchess Kryze is to marry.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of her more often, and more frequently during situations where his attention would best be put to use elsewhere. In council, he is forced to ask Master Windu to repeat a question he’d failed to hear, his mind being drawn by the gleam of light off the Senate dome on the horizon. During a sparring match, he takes a hit he’d never have missed except that Anakin threatens to deliver him a close shave at the end of his saber, and he’s struck dumb by the memory of her hand upon his cheek. There are peace lilies in a vase in the Archives, and pure beskar changes hands in a deal he’s meant to disrupt at a Separatist camp, but by far the most egregious lapse comes in the midst of relief efforts in a small village on Taskeed. He is caught, for a moment, by the sight of a woman with blonde hair and a young boy on her hip turning away from him. His focus slips. A blaze of light flashes more quickly than he can see, and by the time he hears the retort of a blaster rifle he is already on the ground. 

The clones close ranks around him. Cody kneels, calling in a medevac even as Obi-Wan tries to rise. 

“No, sir, stay down,” he says, laying one hand against his shoulder. Obi-Wan winces at the contact. His muscles strain at the effort, the nerves at the site of his injury ruptured and ragged.

“Cody,” he chokes out. “There’s a hostile.”

His second is a merciful man and makes no comment on the idiocy of that statement. Instead, he bites open a pain tab, and shoves it between Obi-Wan’s teeth. Then, so rapidly he has no time to protest, he removes his belt, and tears apart the fabric at Obi-Wan’s waist, sprinkling sulfa powder over the gory wound, and pressing a bacta patch down to cover it.

There is no more blaster fire to mark their passage back to the ship, but the wound is too serious to treat on board  _ The Negotiator _ . He is sent back to Coruscant as a consequence of his foolishness.

There, he is dipped in bacta, where he doesn’t dream, and he spends the next week of his convalescence thinking of her.

It had never been this bad during their first separation. The months following her ascension to the duchy had been painful, that he cannot deny, and he spent hours in his room lonely, and self-pitying, but he had been a child then and he can forgive himself now for the folly of youthful indiscretions. There followed more than a decade between them and he had gone days, weeks - upon the outbreak of war even months - without thinking of her at all.

But with one touch of her hand, he’s fallen again, his resolve crumbling into dust as though his indifference to her were only a veneer grown thin and brittle with being stretched over so much time.

The Duchess of Mandalore is to marry.

Why should that matter to him? They are friends. Hardly that, and nothing more. And it was he who had defined those terms. So why should he be restless, and anxious, and fretted up like some craftsman’s handiwork at the thought of it? It is silly. It is demeaning - to her, and to him.

And yet...he wants to know.

Who is she to marry? And when? How did they meet? Is he a Mandalorian, like her? Or did she meet him here? Did they meet at the Senate while he walked in the Temple only a few klicks away? Have they much in common? Do his political aims match hers? Does he long for peace like she does? Will he stand by her side in upholding it? Would he die for it? Would he die for her? Does she love him?

She must, he thinks. She must love him. She would not choose him, otherwise.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest thought of all.

He is confined to medbay with nothing to occupy his time but his holopad, his dispatch reports, and her when he sees a news story flash on his screen.

_ At Last! The Lily is Plucked _

He cannot help himself as he reads about a chance meeting, a whirlwind romance, and plenty of private assignations held at various hotels and restaurants across Capital City. There are holos, too, and reels. He sees her leaving the Bal Silvestre on the arm of Corellian senator, Garm Bel Iblis.

Senator Bel Iblis is older than her, and seems a bit unkempt, his long hair pulled half back in a simple style. Obi-Wan knows of him by reputation, and heard him called a rake. His politics brand him a maverick, and a rogue, and he has been known, once or twice, to engage in backdoor negotiations in order to ensure a vote swings one way or another in his favour. Beside him, while he stands smug in his dark brocade, she shines. She is spotless. Luminous. They are not well matched.

He scours the net for more, and because he is looking, he finds it. There are many articles - hundreds. Some map out timelines of their courtship (they met years ago, apparently, at some gala held while Obi-Wan was still helping Anakin with Basic), some tell the history of their previous romantic entanglements (he was engaged to a woman now dead. She was once rumoured to be promised to a Vizsla. Obi-Wan’s name is not mentioned). Some merely provide pictures of their exploits, and comment on their mutual friends, making conjecture after conjecture about how their romance came to be, and what must happen next now that the flame has been rekindled. It is torturous. And tedious. And soon, Obi-Wan loses track of the details that appear in one article, and again in every other.

But one thing remains clear to him: Satine Kryze is going to be married. She has forever slipped his reach.

A reach, he pathetically reminds himself, he never intended to extend. All this self-flagellation is for naught. He is being ridiculous. 

So he thumbs off his pad, turns out the lights, and tries to sleep with the image of Satine, smiling and resplendent flickering in his mind. The next morning, feeling no better for the little rest he managed to steal, he deletes the history of his pad, and determines to feel absolutely nothing at all about Satine Kryze.

Then Padme comes to the Council and requests a padawan be sent to Mandalore’s aid.

It is Ahsoka who goes. Of course it is. He takes small solace in the fact that it had not been he who suggested her, but since she  _ was  _ assigned, he feels well within his rights to enquire about the Duchess upon her return.

“She seemed fine,” Ahsoka tells him. He has invited her for tea following her report to the Council, hoping he might, in his hospitality, coax a few more personal details from his grand-padawan. “I mean, there was a moment where Almec - that’s the Prime Minister, or rather  _ was  _ \- anyway, there was a moment where he had her in a shock collar, but like I said, the cadets and I managed to sort it out.”

“Right,” he concedes. “As you said.”

A moment passes between them. Obi-Wan sips his tea, struggling to swallow as the fist around his throat grows tighter and tighter. Ahsoka, blissful in the aftermath of a successful solo mission, grabs another biscuit and a strip of perami gammon. 

“And tell me,” he ventures. “What of her - her consort? Any word of him? Where was he during this mess?”

“Her consort?”

“Her husband.”

Ahsoka scrunches her nose, and cocks a brow at Obi-Wan’s wild inquiry.

“She had a nephew,” she says. “But no one ever said anything about a  _ consort _ .”

“Ah,” he says. “Perhaps he was occupied elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, amicable and amenable to letting the whole thing slide. He only hopes she won’t think it significant enough to mention to Anakin later.  _ His _ curiosity won’t be as easily sated with tea and deflection.

* * *

He is not a lucky man.

Anakin comes blazing into his room with an ambitious stride, and a grin that speaks of imminent mischief.

“Heard you were asking Ahsoka about the Duchess’ consort,” he says, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair and dropping to lounge across Obi-Wan’s low couch.

“I was asking about her mission,” he corrects. He turns his back to set some water to boil, knowing that such an entrance by his padawan indicates a visit of extended duration. “And the key players, therein. Purely professional.”

“Purely.” Anakin smirks.

The subject is dropped when Anakin is diverted by the service being laid before him, and the inclusion of several of his favourite confections.

“Noorian memba tarts!” he cries. “Where did you even find these?”

“An old recipe,” Obi-Wan says. “But I remember you enjoyed them when we dined on Belasco and thought I’d try my hand at it.”

It is not a bad effort either, judging by Anakin’s display of enthusiasm. He eats the first with some degree of etiquette, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth are gone with no display of decency or shame whatsoever.

Obi-Wan sips his tea. He is thinking of Tahl while Anakin is thinking of the sweetness on his tongue, and making excuses for his absence the previous night.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but I was unavoidably delayed after the Senate recessed for the evening. I had to - to assist a delegate with a personal matter.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but remembers how Qui-Gon, too, used to invent reasons to disappear unchecked. He invents nothing. He only cleaves to his duty, while time and fate conspire to keep him absent anyway. 

Anakin must hear something in his silence, because his expression loses the tension of equivocation, and he falls to studying Obi-Wan’s face.

“I was only teasing, master,” he says. “Before. I didn’t think to ask Ahsoka anything about the Duchess. She spent most of her time with the nephew, but he seemed a bright kid. Close to Satine. I can ask her to ask him if he knows anything -”

“Absolutely not,” says Obi-Wan. The words are soft, but definite. He rises swiftly to clear the detritus of their meal. “Thank you, Anakin, but Duchess Kryze is only a friend. I merely inquired out of a desire to assure myself that the report issued to the Council lacked nothing in the thoroughness of its presentation. I should hate to think that such a personal association might be overlooked as an avenue for effecting harm.”

“Oh.”

“But I thank you in any case. Ahsoka’s report was well done, and you should be very proud of your padawan,” he says. “As I am of you.”

He turns to Anakin then, smiling and benign. His padawan meets his look with a vaguely skeptical one of his own, before patting him on the shoulder, and shrugging back into his cloak.

“Alright, master,” he says. “I’ll let her know how  _ thorough _ she was.”

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

“Goodbye,” his friend replies. Then, just as he crosses the threshold of the door and moves into the open hall, he looks back. “Oh,” he says. “There’s a quick supply run being made to Mandalore for relief in light of Ahsoka’s investigation. Scheduled for tomorrow, but unfortunately, I’m needed back at the Senate. I meant to ask - you wouldn’t mind making the trip for me, would you? You don’t even need to get off the ship.”

* * *

There is nothing he can say to Anakin, so of course, as contrived and embarrassing as the whole thing is, he goes. And he does get off the ship.

Satine is there to meet him.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, extending her hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

He drops a brief, and reverential kiss then lets her go. 

“Cleaning up after my padawan and  _ his _ padawan, it seems,” he says. “Apparently, a master’s work is never over. Congratulations on your recent engagement, Duchess. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

The look which passes over Satine’s face is one he cannot decipher. He thinks she looks in equal parts shocked that he has heard, disgusted by his presumption in speaking of it, embarrassed by his boldness, and wearied by his presence. But she doesn’t deny it, so he makes his excuses to leave.

“Excuse me, Duchess,” he says. “But this was only meant to be a very brief visit, and I should prepare for departure.”

“Can you not stay for midmeal?” she asks, and he hesitates upon the precipice of her invitation. “Surely you don’t mean to tease me with a visit as brief as this? And surely your men would enjoy some rest and repast before you go?”

The troopers at his back shift, and he can feel their eagerness undulate in the Force. It would be cruel to deny them for the preservation of his own fragmented dignity, so he relents.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. “We would be most honoured.”

“Captain,” she says to the Protector at her right. “Have these men fed and watered immediately. The kitchens and my staff are at their disposal.”

He clicks his heels, and disappears, while she steps forward, and wraps her arm around Obi-Wan’s as though completely uncaring of any beau or consort or husband who might see.

“You, my dear master,” she murmurs slyly by his ear. “Are to be attended elsewhere, at my discretion.”

He does nothing to resist as she pulls him along.

Soon, they are at the Palace. Soon, they are sat at a small table in her private quarters, drinking Mandalorian kava, and eating freshly baked land’shun. Soon, they are alone.

She sets her drink aside, and dusts her hands on a fine silk napkin before broaching the subject trapped between them.

“Now, what is this about my nuptials?” she asks. Her blue eyes are steady upon his own, and he feels his palms slick with sweat. She is radiant. She is regal. There is no holo or reel or word that could do justice to the beauty of this woman in the flesh, and he feels that insidious root of jealousy writhe with agony.

“Satine -” he begins.

“No, no,” she protests, seeming to anticipate his deflection before he has begun. “I should like to hear why you think I ought to accept your congratulations, and why you felt you ought to offer them  _ personally _ , in particular. Mandalore seems a rather dull trip for a High General to make.”

“I came in Anakin’s stead, actually,” he replies pertly. Another sip of kava lends some sophistication to this claim.

“Of course,” she says, but she does not look away. He can feel her gaze upon him. He can feel her glittering in the Force. She is laughing.

And he cannot bear it.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he says, rising to his feet. He sets the cup upon a saucer where it clatters inelegantly against the pot of sucre next to it, overturning the dish and sending the crystals spilling across the table. “Forgive me,” he says again. 

She lunges forward to right the pot, and still his hand beneath her own. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then, he pulls away.

“I read about it on the net,” he says. “I saw the holos, and the reels. I only wanted to see you one last time, to see...I wanted to see that you were happy. That’s all.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, his name like a sigh upon the breeze.

“It is nothing,” he says. “A foolishness all my own. I am sorry if I have troubled you, and I offer you my sincerest congratulations.”

He bows, though when he raises his head, his eyes do not rise with it, so he does not see the look of sorrow upon her face. Still, he imagines it as pity, and moves to make his escape. She is faster than he is. 

“No,” she says, standing between him and the door. “I will not accept your congratulations, and I will not accept your departure on such callous terms as these.”

“Duchess -”

“ _ Ben _ ,” she counters, leaning on the name. “I am not engaged. I am not married. And I do not intend to be, no matter how devoted to the idea of it you are.”

“I -  _ devoted _ ?” he asks, his voice rising to the height of his indignation. “I am devoted to no such thing. I have only - only been  _ reconciled _ to it for weeks, thinking only of you and your happiness.”

“And your own misery, too, I’d wager.”

He chokes on his denial because he knows it is too big a lie to fit through his lips, and stares at her in dismay. She is smiling. Force, he thinks. She is incandescent. Like she has swallowed a star, and he can’t look away. He would that he could be consumed by her too, and finally, he gives in.

“Yes,” he says in an admission of guilt so great it brings relief. “I was miserable. I am, I think, an infinitely miserable person.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I am not getting married, I am not engaged, and I am only as in love as I ever have been. And if you are foolish enough to forget that, then you are deserving of every misery you heap on yourself.”

“Have pity,” he begs.

“None,” she says.

“Have mercy,” he pleads.

“For you?” she says. “Always.”

They fall together like gravity and sunlight, and for a moment, whole galaxies bend to their will.

* * *


	13. The Hope of Orphans, and Unfathered Fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the prompt that I gave to trees, and then um...I just did it myself. One day, there'll be some fluff.

**THE HOPE OF ORPHANS, AND UNFATHERED FRUIT**

* * *

He wakes to silence. There is nothing except the sound of his own breath being scraped from his lungs like wax under fingernails, the beating of his heart against his ribs, and the creak of his bones. There is nothing else. Even his cry of terror has died upon his lips, unfledged and unrealised in this void. He is all alone.

“We’ll be coming out of hyperspace soon.” 

He hardly recognises the voice, hardly hears the words as he reaches for the only source of warmth and light in space. Beside him, tucked securely between his chest and the wall, is a heavy bundle of coarse wool, and worn linen. Within it, the weakly struggling flesh of new life.

“Hush, Luke,” he whispers, and even his voice is absent.

But Luke...Luke is here. With him. Luke is golden. Luke is the sun, and he shines so brightly that for a moment, the absence of stars is obscured by the break of dawn, and he turns his face to meet it. Luke cries, his voice wet with the sorrow of Obi-Wan’s soul, and he weeps where Obi-Wan cannot.

“Master Kenobi?” The voice calls again. It is young, too, and threaded with uncertainty as it seeks a mooring in this black new world. “Master Kenobi, I need your help.”

He must answer it.

Though his head feels heavier than his feet, and though the compartment of the small, four man ship spins and heaves as though the gravcomp has lost its fulcrum, he manages to stand, and stagger his way to the pilot’s seat at the front of the cockpit. A boy sits there, on the cusp of manhood, with hair like the burnished sand at twilight. He looks up at Obi-Wan’s approach, wide blue eyes thirsty for his guidance.

But he is wrung dry, having wasted it all in the desert of affection.

“They’re asking for a landing code,” the boy says. “They want to search the ship.”

“Let them,” he replies. “We’ve nothing for them to find.”

He adjusts the swaddling around the babe, pulling the folds up higher until the little face is barely visible, and drawing up his hood until his own face is shadowed and obscured.

The pilot fumbles for the comm, but hesitates before he makes the call.

“Master, we haven’t got the clearance,” he says. “I tried Republic codes but they’re all invalid, and I daren’t use a - a Jedi -”

“No.”

“Master, they’re waiting.”

Outside the viewport, Tatooine looms larger, and larger, round and golden, like the husk of a burnt out star. Just endless swathes of sand and stone. A barren rock. The twin suns watch, and Obi-Wan feels his hackles rise, as though he were prey under the baleful gaze of a predator in the night. 

“Tell them whatever you must,” he sighs. His shoulders slump, and his eyes close. He is weary.

He cannot see the way his pilot stares at him, hopeful, and waiting. He doesn’t want to. The weight of his need is punishment enough. Luke is light in his arms, and he rocks him gently.

“This is the pilot of _The Slip_ , Corellian class YT-1300 AUX requesting permission to land.”

“Airbase to _Slip_ , have you got those docking permits yet?”

A single, shimmering breath, and the pilot answers, “No. But we - _I_ can pay you.”

Obi-Wan does not object.

“What sort of payment we talking?”

“What do you care, so long as you get your money?”

“I don’t know,” replies the man. “You bargain like a pirate, but you sound like a kid. I ain’t convinced you got anything I want.”

He can feel his eyes upon him, but he cannot tear his own away from the babe. He is preoccupied with this one last precious thing. The pilot grits his teeth, and replies with all the arrogance of his past life. “Well, how about this - if you don’t like it, you can shoot me when I get there?”

There is silence on the other end, then the comm crackles back to life. The deck officer’s voice rasps with laughter. “Alright, kid,” he says. “You got a deal. Hope you ain’t got family to miss you. We’ll see you at Dock 3, on the south side.”

“Dock 3,” says pilot. “Copy that.”

“And kid? Don’t try anything stupid.”

* * *

He takes the ship in with a steady hand, but as they get closer and closer Korkie feels his breath quicken in anticipation. They haven’t got anything to pay with. They have no credits, no valuables, nothing personal which might tie them back to the Core, or worse, to the Temple. He doesn’t worry so much for himself, having no particular training in the Force, nor any distinctly Jedi affectations. His borrowed robes he discarded on Polis Massa, but his father…

Obi-Wan is unmistakably a Jedi in his sand coloured tunics, and thick, wool cloak meant for all terrains but a blazing desert. However, there is one appurtenance which may work in their favour -

Everyone knows that Jedi have no children, and he will not relinquish Luke.

“ _Slip_ to base: Docking clamps locked, and pressure restored to atmo baseline. Please advise.”

There is sweat beading upon his upper lip. Obi-Wan rocks Luke as he fusses, awakened by the sounds of noise outside. People are waiting for them.

“This is Squaddy Redsun. Lower your ramp, and prepare for immediate boarding.”

He looks to the Jedi, and gathers himself. There is nothing on the ship, and so there is nothing to pack or take as they leave, but still, he casts one last look at the cockpit. Then, he ushers his father forward, through the main hold, and to the head of the ramp. He presses the pair to the side, leaving them just out of plain sight, and so wrapped up in the folds of Obi-Wan’s cloak and each other as to be indistinguishable from shadow. He steps back. He strikes the button to lower the ramp with an open palm. Sunlight floods the hold, and he is left blinking and blind as a rough voice calls to him.

“You the captain, then, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. He can see a man clad in worn leathers, and decorated in the gleaming white bone of some fearsome beast. Beside him, two others with wrist guards, and pikes. He makes no attempt to resist as the guards approach, and does not fight as he is grabbed by the elbow and shoved down the ramp by the first.

But the second has discovered Obi-Wan, and grabs at him with the same barbarity. The Jedi flinches away, and curls around himself. One pale hand reaches back, and Korkie can feel the air turn electric. 

“No!” he cries, startling both the guard and Obi-Wan, the warning clear in the fraught timbre of his voice. “He has a child,” he says. “He’s harmless. But there’s a child. Please. I am the pilot. This is my ship.”

“And who is he then?” Redsun demands.

“No one,” says Korkie. “A refugee of - of Mandalore.”

“He don’t look like no hunter.”

Korkie shrugs, watching closely as Obi-Wan descends untouched, the guard at his elbow. “I don’t know that he has enough left to look like anything.”

“Ha,” chortles Redsun. His men laugh, too. “Then I suppose it’s you what has my payment. Docking codes don’t come cheap.”

“No, sir,” says Korkie. “I - I haven’t any credits.”

“That Republican dross is no good out here, any way,” Redsun spits. “Now, where’s my pay?”

The guards edge closer, and Luke chokes on a feeble cry.

“Hush, dear heart,” murmurs Obi-Wan. “Hush, sweet thing. And sleep.”

“The ship!” says Korkie. “You can take the ship. It’s in fine working order, and the hyperdrive is good for your smaller jumps. I -”

His neck snaps, his teeth snap together, and he can taste blood as a fist connects with his cheek. It leaves him staggering, and spitting into the sand. Luke begins to wail. The sound rings out around him, but he struggles to place its source. Nearby, he knows. They must still be beside him. He reaches out and catches the edge of heavy wool in his grip.

“None of that banthashit, boy!” shouts Redsun, and he is near as well. He can smell the man as he comes closer, still. “That ship ain’t worth half the trouble you’ve caused. What else you got?”

“Nothing,” he pleads, struggling upright again. The guard at his side restrains him. “Nothing. But take the ship, and I can - I can work for you. You can garnish my wages -”

“Garnish your wages? What kind of -” A blaster primes. He hears the pitch rise with the charge until it disappears. “Now, we had a deal,” says Redsun. “You pay me now, or I take it out of your hide. Right? You pay me, or I shoot you.”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Korkie.

The barrel presses against his forehead. 

“So you decide,” says Redsun. “Give me my money, or I kill you where you stand. You, and that screeching brat.”

Korkie tries to swallow, but all his tastes is the sour, metal tang of blood. It roils in his stomach. He feels faint. Luke screams, and screams but Obi-Wan only tries harder to sooth him, singing some sad lullaby. A Mandalorian lullaby. 

Korkie recognises it. His...his mother used to sing it to him. He clenches his hand into a fist, tracing his thumb over the ring he wears, as a reminder. And he remembers -

“My ring,” he says, slipping the jewelry from his hand. It is a simple band, but thick and completely unblemished by age or use. “I can give you this,” he insists, holding it so that the suns set it ablaze, glittering like fire in his hand. 

“And what’s that?”

“Pure beskar,” he says. 

Redsun lowers the blaster. Korkie can see his interest pique, and greed replace fury in his cold, black eyes.

“Beskar,” he says. “And how’d you be coming by that?”

He nods at one of the guards, who swaps his pike for a techscanner. The ring is plucked from Korkie’s fingers, and the green light of the machine washes over it.

“Like I said,” says Korkie. “Mandalorian refugees. 

The guard looks up. “It’s as he says, Squaddy. Beskar.”

Redsun regards him for a moment. He shifts his jaw, and rolls his tongue over his teeth. Korkie holds his gaze, even as blood drips from his chin. At last, Redsun gives the sign, and his man lets Korkie go. 

“I’ll be taking the ring,” he declares. “And your kriffing ship, for all the good I’ll make of it. And you get off with a warning.”

“Yes, sir,” says Korkie. “Thank you, sir.”

Korkie gathers Master Kenobi in his arms, and pushes him towards the exit. Through the wide, rusted blast doors, he can see where the dockyards end, and the streets beyond begin. Their escape is at hand, but Obi-Wan is slow to move, fearful of jostling Luke who has settled tentatively once more. The guards make no move to assist, but Korkie is determined. He keeps between Redsun and the Jedi, he keeps him moving forward, and they are hardly ten steps from freedom when blaster fire rings out across the docking bay.

There is a blaze of fire along his side, and Korkie falls in a heap of fine, yellow dust. Breathing hard, he presses a hand to the source of heat, and cries out as agony is awakened by his touch. His fingers come away bloody, but he sits up, then stands, then stumbles on towards the exit, leaning on Obi-Wan, urging him to go, to move, to keep pushing forward. Step by step. He can hear the guards and Redsun laughing behind them.

“Don’t you try playing games like that round these parts, son,” shouts the man. “Not everyone’s as kind as Squaddy Redsun.” 

* * *

The crowds are easy enough to get lost in, and soon Squaddy Redsun and the Mos Eisley docks are far behind them, but Korkie feels their ruin is closer than ever. His side aches, and bleeds sluggishly where the bolt hadn’t instantly cauterised the wound. He is hot. He is thirsty. But worst of all, he cannot speak or read a single word of Huttese. 

“Please,” he asks of a woman hustling by with an armful of black fruits. “Please, can you tell me where to find shelter? An inn?”

She cuts him a glare, and hurries on.

“Sir, if you could - I need to find a place to stay.” 

The man flicks his lekku, and shakes Korkie off.

He cannot tell if they’ve tried this street already, or not, all the architecture looks so similar to his unfamiliar eyes, and all the people are one massive murmuration of a society he is not part of. Then suddenly, a child stands before him. A little boy, with hair the colour of the sandstone walls of the city, and eyes like the sky reaches out a grubby hand.

“We need food,” says Korkie. “And a place to sleep. Please.”

The child nods, and Korkie takes his hand, fisting his other in the folds of Obi-Wan’s robe to be sure he doesn’t lose him in the crowds. They follow the child through innumerable streets, and darkened alleys before they are abandoned in front of a low building on the outskirts of town.

“Can we stay here?” Korkie asks. The child nods. The door slides open at his touch, and he is swallowed up in warm yellow light while Korkie hesitates on the threshold.

But it is getting dark, and he can think of no other alternatives. So he knocks.

“We’re all full up.” He hears the voice first, but it is soon matched by the scowling countenance of a woman worn old by the suns. The little boy clings to her skirts, now shy and retiring after his brazen rescue. She looks at Korkie and his charges from the doorway, and nearly turns away.

“Wait, wait, gedet'ye, jatne vod, vi linibar taap at nuhoy.” He’s slipping, and he only notices when her brow crinkles in confusion. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just - please, we need a place to stay. Just for the night.”

“We don’t have any more rooms,” she says.

“We have a baby.”

He clutches at Obi-Wan’s arm, until he steps forward, and the light falls across Luke’s sleeping face. The woman sighs.

“It’s five wuipui,” she says. 

“I haven’t any money,” he says.

“Then I haven’t any beds,” she replies. He catches the door before it can slide shut. 

“Please,” he says. “Please.”

And at that moment, Luke wakes and begins to weep. The woman stills, and Korkie thanks the stars for timing.

“One bed,” she says. “I won’t have a babe die on my doorstep. Bad business. Bad bly is what it is. But I can only afford to take the one of you with it.”

“Him,” says Korkie, shoving Obi-Wan forward. “He’s his father.”

“And where’s the mother?”

“Dead,” says Korkie. “It’s only - they only have each other.”

The woman nods, and reaches out to pull Obi-Wan into the shelter of her home. The wool slips from his fingers, leaving them clammy and sticky in the rapidly cooling night air. 

“Thank you,” he says, and they disappear behind the door.

At once, the strange euphoria of a desperate flight deserts him, and he collapses in the sand against the wall. His side aches, though the bleeding has mostly stopped. He supposes that is the result of dehydration as much as anything. His lips are cracked. His tongue feels thick. His own blood sits uneasily in his stomach. The streets empty, the second sun slips below the horizon as he watches, and soon he begins to shiver. It’s difficult to stay awake, but after so many hours of preternatural vigilance it feels impossible that he should sleep. There is always some danger, now. They will always be hunted. He blinks, and sees three moons. Perhaps he is concussed, but then Coruscant had four moons, and Mandalore had two, so that is no measure of his injury.

He’d travelled once to Concordia, when he was a child. It was a beautiful place, and it felt, at the time, as though he’d been transported to some ancient world. There were trees. And grassland. There was water you could swim in, and could drink, and it ran freely over rock, and silt in unpredictable patterns, like the veins on the back of his hand. Though he’d been born in Sundari, there was something about Concordia that felt viscerally his. He recognized himself in the wildness of it all, as though it were a sort of mirror, as though if one were to pull up all the grasses and the plants they might pull up all his roots as well. The moons of Tatooine are white. They shine like stars, but there is no warmth to them. He doesn’t think he’ll ever see Concordia again.

Warm light illuminates the dark, turning the sand golden again.

“Alright, none of that. Can’t have Core soft boys dying on my stoop, either.”

“‘M not from the Core,” Korkie mumbles.

“That posh accent of your father’s could’ve fooled me,” she says. He feels her prop him up against the wall, and wonders when he’d laid down. She taps his face with her hand on the cheek that isn’t hurt. Water touches his lips, and he opens his eyes. “Drink up,” she says. “Heat’ll kill you faster than a blastoh will out here, lapti wermo.”

He drinks as quickly as she lets him, and until the vessel is empty. The clay cup is cool against his skin, and he presses his swollen eye against it, grateful for the relief.

“Now,” she says, taking it from his hand, and standing it upright in the sand. “Let’s see about that blaster wound.”

“It’s not bad,” he insists. She ignores him, and tugs his jacket down one shoulder, and slides his arm free. He hisses in pain, and she cuts him a look that says she has absolutely no confidence in his ability to self-diagnose. 

Blood stains his close-fitting sark, and she draws back. 

“I’m going to get some vibroshears,” she says. “I’ll need to cut this off.”

“No,” he protests. “Just lift it. I haven’t got anything else.”

“You haven’t got _this_ , you stupa,” she grumbles. Korkie makes no reply, but leans forward and begins to tug at the hem of his shirt. In response, she leans forward to help him, and launches into a vehement stream of Huttese that makes no sense to Korkie. He comprehends the spirit of the words just the same. “Bolla rass tata, u beggybeggy brite lapti wermo.”

“On my world, we’d say ‘slanar nek gar shabuir’,” he says, grimacing as the shirt comes off. “Or something like.”

“Shabuir?” she says, letting the word bubble on her lips. “I like that one. I’ll keep it.”

“It’s yours.”

The fabric lifts away, heavy with dirt and grime. She is careful not to tear it further as she lays it flat to dry in the sand, and Korkie does appreciate that. Such a small measure of care, and yet already so coveted in this drought. 

“I’ve a poultice,” she offers, withdrawing from the darkness a little bowl of sludge. “It isn’t bacta, but it’s better than nowt.”

Her fingers are cold against his side, or the wound is hot, but either way, he finds her ministrations soothing, and it’s not long before he finds his eyes slipping closed again. He fights it, and thinks he wins, but when wakes to her carefully tucking the ends of his bandages, the moons are much higher than they were before.

“There now,” she says, brushing back his hair, and giving his cheek a kind caress. “Let’s get you inside. Give you some food. Put you to bed.”

“I thought you said you had none,” he mumbles.

She smiles, and throws his arm across her shoulders. “That was before I saw how pretty you were. Now, come on.”

He grins, though it hurts, and rises to his feet when she pulls him. He staggers to the door, his feet made clumsier with exhaustion more than injury this time, and doesn’t fight when she leads him to a room, and drops him on a bed, and urges him to rest his head upon a thin pillow of sand and dry grass. The light goes out, and the door slides shut behind her. In the dark, he cannot tell if his eyes are closed, or not. But he is not alone. There is a voice.

Someone is singing a lullaby nearby. A Mandalorian lullaby. It is an old call and response. He used to sing the answers with his mother when he was very young. He hasn’t heard it in years. But when the singer gets to the end of the verse, he joins in.

“A ner kar'ta cuyir gotal ciryc, bal ni kar'tayl gar darasuum nayc or'atu...O meg, o meg, kelir ni vaabir?”

The voice answers back on a sigh, though the words are different than they ever were before.

“O, ner Kiorkicek,” it sings. “Ni kelir ratiin yaimpar bal cuyir saanyc be gar.”

A baby sniffles in the dark. There is another bed. And he recognises the voice.

“Buir Kenobi,” he says, his voice hardly more than a thought. “Cuyir gar pirusti? Cuyir gar morut'yc.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replies. “We are well. You have saved us. Now, sleep. We shall all begin again in the morning.”

There is a warm hand upon his brow, and the irresistible temptation of sleep, and Korkie drops off into dreams.

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando Translations:
> 
> "Gedet'ye, jatne vod, vi linibar taap at nuhoy"... "Please, honourable madam, we need a place to sleep."  
> "Slanar nek gar shabuir"... "Go fuck yourself, asshole."  
> “A ner kar'ta cuyir gotal ciryc, bal Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum nayc or'atu...O meg, o meg, Kelir Ni vaabir?”... "But my heart is turning cold, and I love you no more. Oh what, oh what shall I do?"  
> "O, ner Kiorkicek. Ni kelir ratiin yaimpar bal cuyir saanyc be gar.”... "Oh, my Kiorkicek. I will always return, and I will become worthy of you."  
> "Buir Kenobi, cuyir gar pirusti? Cuyir gar morut'yc.” ... "Father, are you well? Are you safe?"
> 
> Huttese Translations:  
> Lapti wermo... fancy idiot  
> Stupa... fool  
> "Bolla rass tata, u beggybeggy brite lapti wermo."... "You massive idiot, you rude, fancy beggar boy."


	14. And by the Hand Led

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for an anonymous prompt on tumblr that read: 
> 
> hi ive read like all your stuff about korkie is a kenobi in the span of about three days and i'm so EMOTIONAL?? it makes such narrative sense - star wars is a story about fathers and sons and what happens when mothers are lost and in eternal spring, when obi wan doesn't reject korkie, and korkie doesn't reject obi wan, and they love each other and accept each other despite the gaping hole that satine left in their relationship it like heals and breaks that cycle of little blonde boys being 1/
> 
> of little blonde boys being left in the desert without their mothers and with father figures who don't quite accept the responsibility of being a father to all of their detriments! it lets padme live, and it lets luke escape, and it lets everyone who wants to heal and work towards a better future. anyway, this is some Good Fucking Food and thank u for writing it. if you're still open to prompts i would really like to see some kryze-kenobi family bonding. just the three of them happy and together.
> 
> (Posting the whole thing so I NEVER LOSE IT! <3)

_**AND BY THE HAND LED** _

* * *

It was not Life Day. It was not Holyrod week, and Belli’s birthday had been a full ten month ago. Yet still, on this day, Kirokicek Kryze woke with the sun, and raced to his window where he could see the Sundari dockyard in the distance. 

Personal shuttles buzzed to and fro. Docking tugs hauled heavy freighters into place. Long, thin vactrains hurtled passengers from one platform to the next, or further on into the heart of the city. A few large ferries which had found mooring overnight made their ponderous voyage upwards, headed for the small opening at the apex of the Sundari dome. They were bound for transports anchored in wet space, the people aboard away for deep space travel to distant stars. 

Korkie watched as one neared the aperture, then, with incredible steadiness of hand, cleared the narrow gap with ease. He let go his breath, but his eyes remained fixed upon the opening. He was not much concerned with the ships that left, but instead found great interest in those ferries which were currently arriving.

They took turns - _one in, one out_ \- and with every exchange, Korkie felt as though the city was making room for a very special guest. One who loomed larger than life in his young consciousness, and one who occupied more and more space in his heart the closer he came.

Bebu was coming home.

A knock at his door was not enough to tear his attention from the spectacle outside, but he shuffled over to make room for his mother beside him at the window.

“Good morning, cyar'ika,” she said, pressing a kiss to his hair. “And what has got you up so early?”

She still wore her nightclothes beneath a fine gown of pressed velvet. Korkie leaned back into her embrace, stroking the soft fabric, and letting the warm, sweet smell of sleep wash over him.

“I’m watching the dockyards,” he said. “Look! Do you think that one of them has Bebu on it?”

Satine let her chin rest on the crown of his head, and followed his gaze to the sky.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “Are you excited for your Bebu to come home?”

Korkie turned, trying to get a glimpse of her expression which could only be as teasing as his own was incredulous. She smiled.

“Excited, Belli?” he asked. “I am so, so, superlatively excited!”

“My,” she said, her face transforming to one of awe. “That is quite a superlative word you have discovered. Is it new?”

Korkie nodded. “I am saving it for Bebu, for our collection. Do you think he shall like it?”

“I think he shall be quite impressed, dinui.”

“I have another, but I always say it wrong, so I think I shall write it down, instead.”

“That is very wise,” she said. “For then there is no chance of misunderstanding, and then your father can teach you to speak it correctly.”

Korkie grinned, and squeezed her hand, so glad to be in such perfect accord. 

“That was exactly my plan, Belli!”

“Te jatne mind jo'lekir ti ast,” she said, laughing. “Now come.”

“Are we going to the docks?”

“Not yet,” she said. “First meal first, I think, and then we shall see.”

She stood from her place behind Korkie, and smoothed her skirts. The early morning sun fell kindly over her face, so that it lit her eyes from behind, like the facet of some bright gem. She held out her hand to him.

“But Belli -!”

“Is that fussing I hear coming out of your mouth?” she asked, the perfect image of confusion.

“No,” he conceded, hanging his head in defeat.

“I thought not,” she said. “Not my Korkie. Besides, we must first ensure that we are properly fed, and tidied before we appear at the docks. We cannot have our tummies grumbling and complaining while we are at the height of a superlative joy, now can we?”

“That would be rather distracting,” he allowed.

“And what would your father think if you showed up all bleary eyed, and sleep tousled? He’d hardly recognise you!”

“That’s not true,” protested Korkie. “He’d think me a ‘devoted legislator’. He said so last time.”

Satine cocked her head, a smirk curling in the corner of her mouth, and pinned just there, until such a time as she could give it to the owner of those borrowed words. 

“Well, cyare, I cannot think he meant it as a compliment,” she said, wiggling her fingers temptingly. “Now come - to firsts.

In the kitchens, his mother suggested they arrange a menu, scrounged from the conservator and pantry, while the staff set about preparing for the rest of their day.

“No need to bother anyone too much when it’s just us, right?” She placed a stool in front of an out of the way countertop, and held his hand while Korkie made a great leap to stand atop it. “Now, what are we hungry for?”

“Isbeans, and egg!” he cried. “With fresh muja juice!”

“Muja juice!” she echoed in surprise. “My, but we’re feeling quite indulgent today!”

“Well, it is a special occasion!” he said.

“Of course, you’re right. Muja juice it is. Anything else, ad’ika?”

He thought for a moment, but knowing how easily she had acceded to his first request, he concluded it most reasonable to forward several more.

“Perhaps some toast,” he said. “And flatcakes. And melon squares with black fire jelly? And then some moof milk and summerberries because they’ll go bad if we don’t eat them. With sucre crystals on the top. And maybe - only because Bebu says it’s healthy - a cup of kava. But just one, or I’ll be up all night.”

She crouched down to meet him, mischief sparkling in her eyes and not a word of protest at his requests. Instead, her tone was conspiratorial, as though they were together in some great game of hide and hunt. 

“Let’s brew a _whole pot_ ,” she said. “So that we may share it.”

He laughed in delight. Satine pulled down a tin of weava flour, and let him sprinkle the surface while she portioned out another measure into a shallow bowl for flatcakes. Under her careful eye, he cracked a tip-yip egg, and tipped in some sucre. She worked the mixture into a sticky dough, and portioned out small spheres for Korkie to press out upon the counter. Cook A’den looked on skeptically, but when his stack of raw discs began to pile up, she stepped in with a sigh, and a fond smile and lifted him on her hip while she fried them over a nano-cooker. 

As he worked, Satine gathered the berries and the milk, and a little pot of sucre. Helping hands piled plates high with toast, and ulik butter. Isbeans and hard boiled eggs followed, kept warm beneath heated domes. A whole pitcher of ice cold muja juice was produced from the conservator, and a fresh pot of kava was left to steep with wide, green leaves still in it. There was so much food that, in the end, a small cart was required to bear the fruits of their labours, while Korkie added the final touch of perfectly browned flatcakes.

Normally, they would eat their firsts in the family dining hall, but Satine insisted that she could not possibly do so while still dressed in her nightclothes.

“And scandalise the whole parliament? I think not, my very shocking dinui. No, it’s best we take everything back to my rooms, and eat there where no one will think us as uncivilised as we appear.”

So with many thanks to A’den, and her workers, Korkie followed his mother down the glistening marbloid halls with their wide windows. The sun was nearly all the way up, and the traffic in the sky had only increased since Korkie last looked. He was hit with the sudden realisation that perhaps many ferries had come and gone in his absence, and any one of them might contain his father. He raced to the window to check.

“Come along, Korkie,” said Satine. “Soon. I promise.”

Torn between food and the possibility that his father was waiting for him even now, Korkie gave into the demands of his hunger, and followed his mother down the hall.

They stopped outside her door, the cart pushed just off to the side. Satine looked at him appraisingly, smoothing one hand down over his determinedly erstwhile hair.

“Oh dear,” she said, straightening his synfleece robe, as he reached for the cart to steal a summerberry from the pile. “You do look a sight. But I suppose it cannot be helped.”

She gave him a fond caress, her thumb tracing the swell of his little cheek with such reverence, and care that Korkie nearly felt guilty for snatching the fruit. But she smiled as he swallowed, and he supposed it must just have been one of those strange things buirs did from time to time, where they mixed up joy and sorrow and said nothing about it.

“I shall comb my hair later, Belli,” he offered. That seemed to do the trick, for she laughed, and stood, and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

“I will remember you said that,” she said. “Now, be a good boy and get the door for your Belli, would you?”

She returned to the cart, as he wiped his hands down the length of his robe, and reached for the palmpad. The door chimed, and slid aside with the barest sigh of air. Inside, Korkie could see that the curtains had been pulled back, and the room was flooded blue and gold with the oncoming day. Playful shadows danced across the floor where hanging tassels toyed with the sun. The carpet glistened like thick grass, lush and crowned in dew. A small table with three chairs sat to one side, and an old cloak lay thrown across it. There were boots, too large for his mother to wear, a belt too wide to be hers, and there, in the bed, swaddled in silkweed sheets and haloed by the sun, was Obi-Wan Kenobi, hovering on the edge of waking.

“Bebu!” Korkie shouted.

At his cry, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, and smiled, catching his son as he raced across the floor and leapt upon the bed in a single motion. 

“Ah, ner wer'ika! Ni mirdir tion'tuur gar ru'kel olaror. Bic cuyir ori'udes tion'tuur gar cuyir dar.”

“Bebu!” Korkie cried again, laughing and wriggling with joy. His father lifted him over his head, holding him aloft as he made his cursory examination.

“Kiorkicek,” he groaned, as his strength gave out and Korkie tumbled atop his father’s chest in a tangle of limbs and blankets. “You must be very much grown since I last saw you, for you are getting too heavy for me!”

“No, I’m not, Bebu,” he said. “I’ve only grown two centimeteres since you were gone, and Belli says that’s only because I’m on a spurt.”

“Only two centimeters?” Obi-Wan demands. “Dear me, that’s not very much at all. I shall expect more diligence in your efforts at stretching if we are to make any serious headway in this matter.”

Korkie giggled. “Don’t be silly, Bebu,” he said. “I cannot _stretch_ myself bigger. It takes loads of time.”

“And lots of reading,” Obi-Wan agreed gravely.

“And good eating,” Satine added from behind them. She’d set the table in their distraction. Obi-Wan’s cloak now hung respectably from a hook by the fresher blind, and three plates sat waiting to be filled. The isbeans steamed, their skin crackling and blackened. The flatcakes dripped with galek syrup and butter. The summerberries shone plump and delectable in their precarious pyramid. The black fire jellies jiggled, and the muja juice sparkled.

“Is that fresh kava I smell?” asked Obi-Wan. 

“It is!” said Korkie. “And all sorts of things which Belli and I made! I suppose it’s a lucky thing we made so much extra, for now you can share it with us.”

“A lucky thing, indeed,” Obi-Wan agreed. He looked at Satine with such adoration that the smirk she had pinned up earlier unfurled completely and crossed her face in a radiant smile. 

“Come, Bebu,” said Korkie, taking his father’s hand in his. “Enough lazing about in bed. Let’s eat, or the kava will get cold.”

“Quite right,” Obi-Wan agreed, standing as Korkie slid to his feet beside him, and tugged him over to where Satine was waiting. “We can’t have that.”

“And you may have my cup as well,” added Korkie, magnanimously, “As it is truly a rotten drink, even if you say it is healthy. But since it is such a _special_ day, I don’t think I should be forced to have it, anyway.”

“He drives a hard bargain, your son,” said Obi-Wan, leaning in to beg a small kiss.

“Ah, but of course,” said Satine, quick to grant his request. “He gets that from you, cyare.”

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Te jatne mind jo'lekir ti ast” ...The best mind agrees with itself. (read: Great minds think alike.)
> 
> “Ah, ner wer'ika! Ni mirdir tion'tuur gar ru'kel olaror. Bic cuyir ori'udes tion'tuur gar cuyir dar.” ... Ah, my little terror! I was wondering when you might show up. It has been far too quiet without you.
> 
> ad'ika, dinui, cyare ... little one, gift, beloved.


	15. The Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the perfectly wonderful lightasthesun:
> 
> "Oh! Ohhh you're taking prompts? Am I too late? I hope not! conversationalist: [Obi-Wan] rambles in their sick state. Perhaps about a certain discovery? 🥺👀"

**THE DESERT**

* * *

Anakin knew grief. He knew it as a sort of weakness, a sickness which could be sublimated into anger. He knew how anger could make you strong. How it could win battles, and subjugate enemies. How the fever in your blood, and the roiling in your gut could make you untouchable. Unbeatable. Undeniable.

But Obi-Wan did not.

He would not.

He returned from Mandalore pale, and sweating. He’d collapsed in his rooms, retching for hours on his knees in the fresher, until his muscles gave out, and he lapsed bonelessly onto the cold, ceramplast tile. Instead of making him strong, grief had made him ill. And he could not purge himself of it.

Anakin sat by himself in the main room, wrapped in his cloak, and picking at the threadbare arm of the couch he remembered from his childhood, waiting.

At last, the struggle subsided, and he heard the water run. Obi-Wan emerged from the fresher with hunched shoulders and bloodshot eyes. 

“Oh,” he said. “You’re still here.”

Anakin grimaced. He pulled at a loose thread until it snapped, then brushed it to the floor.

“I made tea,” he replied. “But it’s probably gone cold.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan remained still before stuttering back into motion. It was hardly more than the normal hesitation between thought and action but it made Anakin angry to see the conscious thought Obi-Wan put into deflection.

“I can make some more,” he said, moving off towards the galley with its hot top, and bronznium kettle. He ran the water, and Anakin stood.

“I should get going.”

The tap turned off at his touch. “Ah.” He didn’t turn, only braced his arms against the countertop, and breathed slow and steady.

“Master Eerin said you should try to sleep,” he offered. “Maybe after you drink something. Eat something.”

“I shall,” Obi-Wan said to the unfeeling kettle.

“Master?”

“Thank you, Anakin,” said Obi-Wan. He turned, and smiled but did not let go of the counter.

Anakin felt the warmth of indignation fill him, leaving him hot and trembling. Obi-Wan trembled too. He heard the quiver in his breath, felt the stutter in his presence, and watched as his knees gave out.  
  
“Obi-Wan!”

He caught him around the waist as he staggered forward, the momentum of his fall carrying them both to the ground. Anakin shifted, taking the brunt of the impact on his knees, and cradling Obi-Wan’s dead weight in the crescent of his arms. His eyelids flickered, golden lashes pressing pale impressions of liquid upon his cheeks. 

“Anakin?” he murmured, turning deeper into his arms. “Is it you?”

“I’ve got you,” he said, his own voice shaking though outrage had fled.

“‘M sorry,” said Obi-Wan. 

“Sh,” he soothed. He adjusted his grip to bring him closer, and rocked them both for comfort. “What for?”

“Everything,” Obi-Wan said. His eyes closed, and he made no move to rise, or fight. He only resigned himself to fate, the Force, and Anakin’s embrace. A sigh fell from his lips, and his confession with it. “I’m sorry, padawan. Master Qui-Gon would be so disappointed in me.”

“Don’t say that,” Anakin said. “Don’t say that.”

“I tried.”

“You succeeded, Obi-Wan,” he said. “You won. Just think of everything you’ve done. You beat the Sith. You trained me. You knighted me. You’re on the Council.”

But none of that was enough. 

“We were supposed to...I was supposed…”

“What?”

“...to save her.”

The rocking stopped. That Obi-Wan should have regrets was no surprise, but that they should be for something beyond Anakin, that they should be beyond his scope to hear, or beyond his grace to forgive...when so recently Obi-Wan had betrayed him utterly…

He felt his arms tense, and his hold on his master turn desperate with need.

Obi-Wan was not sorry for his deceit. He was not sorry for how he’d failed Anakin. In this, his lowest moment, when all truths were bared, he spoke of someone else, and Anakin had no sorrow to spare him when he felt it all for himself. He choked on his reply.

“You did what you could, master,” he said.

A whimper of protest, and Obi-Wan turned in his arms, grasping at the cold leather of his mechanical hand, and fighting the call of unconsciousness.

“Anakin, you -”

“What?”

He shook his head, searching, fighting, wrung out by the iron twist of guilt.

“My son,” he said. His head fell heavily again, and Anakin tensed. 

“Yes, master…”

“My _son_ ,” he said, the word new in a way that _father_ was worn old, and tired by Anakin. “She said my son remained.”

“Who?” he asked. He pressed his mouth close to Obi-Wan’s ear, near enough that he might have pressed a kiss if it weren’t for the piety of the confession which followed next.

“Kih’kairkiyc,” he whispered, his breath sweet with fever. “Ner kar'ta ni payt bat Manda'yaim.”

“Where, master?” said Anakin. “You have to tell me where.”

“Sundari,” he breathed. “I left him in Sundari.”

Anakin stood, taking Obi-Wan with him. The weight in his arms was warm, and reassuring, and he though he stood in the Temple, he thought of the desert at night. Obi-Wan groaned against him.

“Stay with me, master,” he said. “I’m going to get you to bed, okay?”

“Anakin,” he said. “Anakin.”

The door to his quarters was swept aside with a touch of the Force, and Anakin laid him out upon the bed as though it were his bier. But he was not as still as he had been then. He reached for Anakin with clumsy hands.

“Sh,” said Anakin, as he pried the fingers loose, and tucked him neatly beneath the sheets. “Rest now. I’ll send Ahsoka by to check on you.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, already half away.

“To Mandalore,” said Anakin. “I promise I’ll be back soon. I promise I’ll bring him back.”

“Anakin,” said Obi-Wan again, even as his breathing steadied, and his hands went limp with sleep. “I love...I love...I love her.”

“I know,” he said. And he was gone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Kih’kairkiyc. Ner kar'ta ni payt bat Manda'yaim.” ... “Little sweetheart. I left my heart on Mandalore.” (Kih’kairkiyc being the root word of Kiorkicek, Korkie’s given name...in my head)


	16. This Too Shall Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tha proooompt fill for this beautiful anon:
> 
> “Prompt request where crechemates Obi Wan, Quinlan, and Luminara catch up after Obi Wan’s year on Mandalore. They’re Jedi but they’re also lifelong friends and Obi Wan is sad...”
> 
> Obi-Wan sure is sad, friend.

* * *

**THIS TOO SHALL PASS**

* * *

He comes back changed, so different that in that first brief moment between arrival and recognition, Luminara thinks she’s never known him at all. There’s a stiffness to his spine that speaks of something deeper than injury, and a weariness to his eyes that comes not from fatigue, but wisdom. His master’s hand lingers on his shoulder, and Obi-Wan leans into the touch, his frame trailing like the tail of a comet in Qui-Gon’s wake. But then he sees her, and he smiles, and he looks like he always has.

“ _ Senior  _ Padawan Luminara,” he says, stepping close and bowing deep. “I heard the good news on the platform as soon as we touched down. Congratulations.”

She bows back, neither as deeply, nor as grave, his impish humour undeserving of too much indulgence. 

“And you as well, padawan,” she says. “Only you would manage to find a Council-sanctioned reason for skipping an entire year of Astronav.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he says, eyes alight with mirth. “It was a matter of utmost political delicacy, and I am honoured that the Council, as well as the Chancellor  _ himself _ saw fit to trust my master and I with such a task.”

“Ah, yes,” she says. “You are well known for your love of politicians. Tell me, is the Duchess of Mandalore very pretty?”

He falters then, a furrow forming between his brows, his lashes fluttering and eyes sliding away from hers in search of something that isn’t there.  _ Ah _ . She raises her hand, and with a slender forefinger, smoothes away the crease.

“Hush, Obi-Wan,” she says. “This too will pass in time.”

He takes her hand in his, and holds tight. A smile, just as tight, flits bravely across his face, and he inhales sharp, and bright.

“It’s nothing,” he says. Then, as though for proof he adds, “And she was very pretty.”

But Luminara isn’t fooled at all.

She watches him at meals, and in classes - though with a year between them now, their schedules don’t quite match as neatly as they once had. Still, she sees. There are the usual things that linger in any padawan, or knight, after more difficult missions, of course. He keeps his back to the wall. He looks for exits. He always is the last to leave a room, and tries to be the first to enter one, but there is more than that.

There is a softness now. It’s...it’s nearly unnoticeable, and even more undefinable, but there is something  _ soft _ about him that wasn’t there before. He listens more attentively. He watches more carefully. He frowns and thinks before he speaks, and the little furrow between his brows is remembered by his skin. He leans close when she whispers to him, so near that his hair grazes gently over her lips, and he doesn’t stare at Siri anymore. Not like he used to. But he laughs, and he offers her his hand instinctively, when they take an aircar to the lower districts one evening. 

He has learned intimacy.

“Must’ve been some kind of girl!” Quinlan shouts, as they reminisce over drinks in a seedy little club in CocoTown. Obi-Wan grimaces as Quin lands a jocund punch on his bicep. He’s in high spirits tonight, having managed to scrape his way through  _ Theoretical Basic _ with Obi-Wan’s help. “I know you’d never leave me to  _ suffer _ as I did for just anyone.”

“Cut it out, Quin,” says Siri, knocking back a shot of something thick and glowing. “Can’t you see he’s distraught?”

“I’m not distraught,” Obi-Wan protests. “I’m just embarrassed to be out in public with you lot.”

“Aw, Obi-Bi,” says Quinlan. “You missed us. Admit it. There’s no duchess in this entire Force-forsaken galaxy that can hold a candle to the pleasure of my company.”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Siri, her mouth grimacing at the sour twist of liquor and Quinlan’s own peculiar arrogance. “You make Gardulla the Hutt look like Alderaanian royalty.”

“Hey Tachi,” says Quinlan, “Aren’t you too young to be out without your master?”

“Hey Vos,” she retorts, “Aren’t you too old to still have one?”

He flicks a protato wedge across the table, which Siri dodges easily, snatching it out of the air with a deft application of the Force, and eating it while he protests her theft. 

“I paid for that!”

Garen laughs, while Reeft is too busy scarfing down half a nerf to offer his opinion one way or another. But Luminara watches. Obi-Wan smiles, and smiles but it never lasts for longer than he is observed. It falls away quickly when he drops his eyes, or ducks his head as though the weight of it is pulling his whole being down. His presence in the Force isn’t dimmed. He is as cool, and clear as he has ever been, but she cannot sound him. Like the ocean, he is fathoms deep. 

She nudges his foot beneath the table, and he looks at her, attentive to whatever she might need, for surely there is something he might do, something he might say that would fulfill her want and distract him from his own. But she only cocks her head, and studies him, mouthing “Are you okay?” over empty drek and ale bottles. 

He blinks. Confusion springs up like a keen defensive blade and he nods as though she were a fool for asking. She presses her lips until they are thin as flimsi, and takes a sip of drek. 

“Here, Obi,” says Quin, shoving a shot into his hand. “You and me are gonna drink Tachi under the table.”

“And no purging,” Siri adds. She raises her own glass in salute. “Last woman standing wins!”

And with a cry, and an encouraging hand guiding his own, Obi-Wan joins in the competition, drinking until Quinlan winds up half-conscious in the fresher, and Siri is slapped with a lifetime ban. Reeft, and Garen stagger off to Dex’s, while as penance, Siri vows to see Quinlan safely to the Halls of Healing. Hopefully Bant is on duty and will take pity on them.

“If I  _ really _ grovel, she might even hook us up with one of those Corellian selamine drips!” Siri slurs, Quinlan draped over her shoulders and drowsing.

Luminara seriously doubts that is a possibility, but says nothing. She only nods encouragingly, and adjusts her hold on her own unstable burden. Obi-Wan has fared better than Quinlan, knowing better than to challenge Siri to a bet, and having learned, somewhere along the way, that some battles are better left unfought, but still he struggles to keep his feet, and Luminara braces herself to steady him. 

They squeeze into the aircar together, but are forced to walk the last few blocks to the Temple, when Quinlan unceremoniously vomits out the back window. Most of it is whipped away by the wind, but their driver is furious, and refuses to go any further. And while guiding the steps of three drunken beings is more tedious than simply shoving them in a taxi had been, there is some fortune in this outcome as they manage to make it past Temple security with far less notice than if they’d had to be cleared at the private docks.

Still, Siri and Quinlan make no secret of their passage, laughing and giggling at every missed step or absent whim. At the crossroads between quarters and the Halls, she waits until they stagger out of sight before turning her charge towards his master’s rooms. He’s quiet, pliant, and easily led - a state that she cannot attribute to anything except the quantity of drink in his system, since his stubborn willfulness is something which was left quite unchanged. 

“Come on, Obi-Wan,” she whispers, as they approach his chamber door. “Help me out, here.”

She nudges him in the ribs, and lifts his arm while his head lolls sideways to tuck under her chin. She feels his lips against her neck, his breath hot. He smells of sweat, and stale cigarra, and brittle nighttime wind. 

“Rejorhaa'ir ni meg gar copad, Sat’ika.” 

The words are soft, reverent, hardly more than a kiss upon her skin, and Luminara knows they are not for her. She shakes him harder. Hard enough to dislodge him from his perch atop her collarbone, and drop him into wakefulness.

“Satine?” he mumbles, blinking in the dark. He speaks the name like an orison, and Luminara feels her heart ache with the weight of his prayer.

“I’m not Satine,” she says. “You’re home now. You have to open the door and go in.”

“What?”

“The door, Obi-Wan.” She nudges him further ahead, forcing his feet to accept the responsibility of gravity. 

He stumbles, but catches himself, and lets out a sigh. 

“Master Qui-Gon is never going to let me hear the end of this,” he says, pressing his palm flat beside the door, and staggering through as it slides away with a hiss.

She follows him in, catching him at the waist as he makes an aborted attempt to collapse across the couch in the common room. His hand hits a clay pot, sending it spinning, and his foot strikes a hollow note against the little wooden table at his side. 

“Careful,” she scolds, righting the plant, and listening for the sound of a wakeful master. “We’re going to go to your room.”

“Ah, Padawan Unduli, you’re trying to sed-”

“Padawan Kenobi, keep quiet, lest you wake your master.”

“Right,” he says. And that is sufficient threat, for he keeps any further jibes and jokes to himself as they pick their way down the hall to his room.

This time, she opens the door, her hand firmly in the middle of his back as she escorts him in. The room is still musty from his time away, and though it is no bigger than any standard issue room in any other double suite, it still feels empty and cavernous around them. Obi-Wan hasn’t lived here in a very long time. The walls themselves have forgotten him.

“Thanks for helping me home,” he says. He drops upon his bed, shrugging off his cloak and pulling at the clasps upon his boots. His fingers are wild and clumsy. She watches him struggle for a moment, before pity takes hold, and she kneels down to assist. She brushes his hands aside, and he falls back against the wall, his breaths rasping loudly in the dark.

“If you’re going to be sick let me know,” she says, with a brow raised in barest concern. “I don’t want you to aspirate on your own.”

“I’m not going to be sick,” he insists, voice thick.

“Or if you’re going to cry,” she adds.

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m not. I missed you.””

She shucks the boots, and lifts his legs onto the bed, pulling a blanket across him. He closes his eyes but his jaw is tight, and that furrow in his brow remains. She reaches out to smooth it.

“I missed you, too. Sleep now,” she says. “And dream of lovely things.”

“I’d rather dream of nothing,” he whispers. “I’d rather not dream at all, if all I’ll see is her.”

His hand clenches over the edge of the sheets. She sits, and folds his hand beneath her own. In the stillness of this empty room, and the comfort of his childhood bed, he fights. He bites his lip, until the blood has fled, and the tender flesh turns white. He turns his head, and swallows hard, again and again to drown that anguish, to bridle that emotion, and master himself, just as a Jedi ought. At the corner of one eye, sorrow beads and slips across his cheek. She soothes that injury, too, and murmurs to him sweetly.

“Hush, Obi-Wan, you’re home, now. You’re safe. You’re here. I’m here. Be here, with me.”

“But I will never be there again,” he says, choking on the words as they break free. “She’s gone. She’s gone, and I’ll miss her forever. It’s all over, now.”

“It is,” she sighs, stroking his hair. It has grown long in a year, and his braid is nearly hidden. “It’s over, but it happened. You loved her. And she loved you.”

“I could have stayed,” he cries. “I would have left for her.”

“But you didn’t. You came back. Do you now regret it?”

He gasps. A wretched sob breaks loose, and he surges up, panic, and despair, and overwhelming loss sending him reeling into her arms. He weeps against her chest until he is exhausted, and her robes are crystalised with salt.

“You can still go back,” she whispers, a secret in his ear. “If you wanted. The choice is yours to make.”

He shakes his head, and tightens his grip. 

“I made my choice,” he says, tongue thick and slow. But his tone is clear. His heart resolved. He knows what it is he speaks. “I am a Jedi. This is where I’m meant to be.”

“Then trust the Force,” she tells him, gently. “And trust yourself. This, too, shall pass in time.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a:
> 
> “Rejorhaa'ir ni meg gar copad, Sat’ika.” ... “Tell me what you want, Sat’ika” (“ika” being a diminutive used only between very close acquaintances)


	17. I Always Want To Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Fill: "You know why I'm here. Spotify prompt. #69. Obitine. Need I say more? 😎"
> 
> "I Wonder What's Inside Your Butthole" was legitimately the #69 song on my Spotify rewind. So...here's the fill!

**I ALWAYS WANT TO KNOW**

* * *

“Already?” he asks, as she turns out the lights. 

“It’s getting late,” she replies, and he sets his holopad aside, and nestles deeply into the embrace of her bed. The shimmersilk sheets are cool against his toes, the fabric sliding over the bared veins and tendons like that first chill of autumn on Mandalore’s moon. She slips in beside him, and he reaches for her, pressing his palm flat against the middle of her back and pulling her close. 

Their noses brush, and they share a multitude of breaths, his coming more quickly as time goes by. She moves closer still, until her forehead touches his. She strokes his cheek, and hums a song. She can feel his body soften against hers, and his thoughts slow.

“Did you know, on Tatooine there exists a creature called a _sarlacc_ ,” he murmurs. He reaches up between them, his fingers, calloused and clever, toying with a veda pearl clasp left undone at the collar of her nightdress. 

“Is there?” she asks. “And what sort of creature is the sarlacc?”

“It is a beast,” he replies. “It devours anything so unfortunate to cross its path, and once consumed, there is no relief. It is indiscriminate, and inescapable. In the sarlacc, there is a special kind of cruelty, for it eats its prey while they live, and it eats them slowly.”

She brushes back his hair, and traces the lines that only recently have begun to deepen, the rivers of joy carving their path across his face with learned permanence. Still, he frowns now, and that line, too, is deep.

“Then I am very glad not to have encountered it,” she whispers.

But he sighs, and carries on. “It is no small beast,” he says. “It consumes whole bantha, as large as any aircar - or larger, still. It eats rats, and dewbacks, and poor old dragons who are unlucky enough to stumble near. And men and women, too. The Hutts use it as a means of execution.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“And that is where the real brutality of its nature appears,” he says. “For the sarlacc hates dead things. It will not touch carrion. And so, it keeps its victims alive, even beyond the pain and agony of a natural death. It _feeds_ its prisoners, even as it _feeds on_ them, and so, one in the grip of the sarlacc pit may actually remain alive longer than they might have if they’d remained free. A man may be consumed for a hundred years. A bantha for a thousand. No one knows how long a krayt may live.”

She kisses his forehead, and takes his hand in hers. 

“You do far too much reading,” she says.

He laughs. “I learned all that from Anakin.”

“Ah,” she says, laughing with him, and rolling to her back. He drapes his arm across her stomach. “I should have known. No academic article would be quite so romantic about it all.”

“Do you think it romantic?”

“I think you want it to be,” she says, turning to him in the moonlight. The first rises quickly over Sundari, the second slower, taking its time, indulging in looking over its people with a bright, and benevolent eye. Even so, it has already crept over the apex of its arc, and is falling slowly to the horizon again. He kisses the tips of her fingers, and she thinks of all his funny notions, and gentle whims. 

“And why would I wish romance on what amounts to an oversized anal sphincter?”

Every so often, he comes out with the most extraordinary sentence, and every so often she is caught off guard. Laughter breaks from her in the darkness, and falls over them in a bright, and sparkling downpour of light. It echoes down the hall, and the claricrystalline chandelier there shines a little more brightly, the facets of its pellucid prisms turning towards the sound. She laughs until he joins her, and then they laugh until they cry, and draw close, arms wrapped around waists, and held fast, and falling silent once again.

“You’re right,” he concludes. “I’m only being silly.”

“You have much better places to imbue with romance,” she replies.

He stills, and looks at her, eyes serious and dark. “I do,” he says. “And I am running out of time.”

“You are not,” she insists. “You will be back. And you will miss nothing.”

“But I will,” he says, his voice turning urgent. “And I have. It’s all gone by so fast. I leave, and I come back and your prime minister is different, and you’ve renovated a room, and your hair is longer, and our son - our son...has it been so many years? He is almost grown, and I swear, I only looked away for a single moment.”

“And so you wish to be consumed by a sarlacc, where time cannot devour you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but smiles instead, and she laughs to see that same old mischief, those same bright eyes she first loved on Draboon. They huddle together in their joy, like they had before, and they kiss as openly, and boldly as they learned in the ripe blossom of their youth.

“Admittedly,” he rumbles, her ear pressed to his chest. “It seemed a much better idea in the wild abstract than framed so pragmatically as that.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says. “I think there is a lesson to be learned from the sarlacc, after all.”

“And what is that?” he asks. 

“That immortality is not something to be sought, but something to inspire pity.”

He looks at her, crooking his neck, and pulling back to find her eyes.

“You sound like Master Qui-Gon,” he says. “Where did you learn such wisdom?”

“From him, of course,” she grins. “Just as you have also, though sometimes you forget. What was it that he always told you?”

“To live in the present,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “To trust the Force, and focus on the now. The future does not exist, and neither does the past. We only have this moment. And that’s where we should stay.”

She is warm against him, and he grows drowsy in her embrace. The moons are nearly set, and soon he will have to rise to catch an early transport back to Coruscant. But tonight, they are together. And now, they may laugh, and smile, and breath, and touch, and dream until tomorrow.

* * *


	18. It Can Never Happen Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT FILL FOR TREESCAPE!
> 
> “You’re burning up.” For Obitine.
> 
> ❤️🔥

_**IT CAN NEVER HAPPEN TWICE** _

* * *

”You’re burning up.”

“Remove your hand from my face before I remove it from your person.”

“I only meant to say that we can rest,” he explains, watching as Master Jinn forges on ahead, clearing a path through thick brush. “If you need to.”

It is safer here, out in the wilds, than on the road, the stretch between Mircine and Kar’Marev known for kidnappings, hunters, and corpses, but Satine will not be bowed.

“We may if _you_ need to,” she spits. “I am perfectly capable of continuing without breaking, though I would not begrudge any weakness of yours.”

He grits his teeth, and she holds his gaze, steady and fever bright, the heat of her presence grinding him into deference out of respect for her position, for his master, and for the basic tenets of the Code - a Code which he seems to remind himself of continuously these days. Certainly, he has become more familiar with the first precept than ever before. He is intimate friends with it, having meditated on it for hours with no great success. _There is no emotion._

“Of course, Your Grace,” he says. His bow is shallow and poorly done, the curve of his lips equally false, but she says nothing. “I was only trying to help.”

“Thank you, padawan,” she says, then turns and marches on.

He catches up with her at sundown, hours later, and her condition is not improved. She stumbles along behind Qui-Gon, head bent, eyes on every next step. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps, and Obi-Wan can’t help the worried glances he keeps throwing at Qui-Gon’s broad back. He frets at the strand of shared consciousness between them, like he frets at the hem of his sleeve, and when it’s finally gone dark, he approaches his master where she cannot hear them.

“She’s ill,” he says, with no attempt at a conciliatory preamble.

“I know,” says his master. “I had hoped we might reach the city tonight, but it is later than I thought. And I dare not brave the open plains past dusk. Not like this.”

“Then we’ll rest for the night?”

“We will,” Qui-Gon says. “Though I fear it will not help us much.”

“Master?” He shuffles nearer, and Qui-Gon speaks even lower to be certain of their confidence.

“The duchess is ill,” he says. “And if her fever persists she shall not be able to continue tomorrow. If it breaks, she shall be too exhausted to proceed. Either way, our efforts will be in vain, and worse - foolish. We gain nothing by gaining ground on foot only to lose it in body.”

Obi-Wan glances behind him as the duchess stokes the embers of their fire, banked low so as not to draw attention. She coughs, and it sounds as though it catches on every rib, rattling and severe.

“Is it so serious?” he asks. “We are at least a day’s walk from help in any direction. What if she gets worse?”

Qui-Gon huddles close, scratching at the edge of his beard. “There is a plant,” he says. “A weed, really, and so it should be in no short supply. If I can find it, we may make a tea of its leaves.”

“A local remedy,” says Obi-Wan, looking sceptical. “Will it cure her?”

“It might alleviate the worst of her symptoms.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Show it to me, master,” he says, closing his eyes to search out the gossamer impression of light and colour in the Force. But his master frowns, and holds him at arm’s length.

“No, Obi-Wan,” he says. “I shall search. You must stay here, and care for Satine.”

“What? But master, surely it is better that I go!”

“I know what I’m looking for, where to find it, and how much we need.”

“There are hunters on the prowl -”

“- And the only company worse than yours, should one find her here. Stay, padawan, and watch over her.”

She coughs again, and he throws a doubtful glance over his shoulder before applying to Qui-Gon once more.

“Master -?”

“Be kind,” he says. “And _patient_. Trust in the Force, and I shall be back soon.”

But Qui-Gon is not back soon, and the night grows cold and dark around them. The creakers in the grass go to bed, and the home world Mandalore hangs heavy in the sky until the clouds come in and shroud it from view. Obi-Wan smothers the fire with sand, the red heat of it glowing bright in the absence of planetlight. He worries it might draw the eye of any unsavory observers, and trusts that Qui-Gon will be able to navigate without it. He can feel him, far afield, illuminating the shadows like starlight falling softly over leaves, and moving father still.

“Do you think Master Jinn will return before dawn?”

Satine sounds miserable, her voice crackling in place of tinder. She clears her throat, and clutches her thin cloak more closely about her. 

“I hope so,” he replies. “Maybe sooner.”

“I had not thought reconnaissance something so eagerly done at night.”

They had decided between them it would be best to keep Qui-Gon’s purpose from the Duchess. Qui-Gon had said that she was already struggling under the weight of so many expectations of infallibility that one breach might be enough to topple her. Obi-Wan had simply desired an evening free of insufferable debate. If Satine suspected either reason, she would be offended, so Obi-Wan shrugs, and unrolls his bedkit.

“Master Jinn felt it would be better if he used the cover of night to clear our path than simply hope we don’t stumble across some hive of villainy in the daylight.”

“And you agreed with him?” she says.

“I trust him,” he says, unflinching. “Master Jinn is very experienced in matters of this nature, and I trust him to lead us safely.”

“So long as the Force wills it,” she mutters. It is not his imagination that some bitterness sours the air, then, and he feels it twist against his spine, drawing him stiffly upright to counter her.

“Yes,” he says. “But you seem to be labouring under the presumption that trust in the Force is tantamount to resignation to our fate.”

“Isn’t it?” she demands. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks flushed pink and raw.

“Isn’t pacifism?” he retorts. “Or would you contend that laying down arms in the face of violence and oppression a _brave_ choice?”

A twig snaps in the distance, but Obi-Wan feels no danger stir in the Force. Foolish - for she scowls at him, baring her teeth like a feral strill on the hunt. 

“What do you know of bravery, _padawan_? You have always been at heel, always in the shelter of your Order, and your Temple, and your Master Jinn. You know nothing of fear.”

“And you know nothing of me,” he snaps. “But I would fight. I would sacrifice everything for what I believe is right. I would die for it.”

“And so would I.”

“I would kill for it,” he says, and she is silent. He feels his victory at hand, and her silence. his reward. Finally. “Don’t speak to me of bravery. You have fine ideals, and beautiful dreams, but I have seen the galaxy, and I know what it is to face villains who would destroy everything you love simply for the sake of seeing you suffer. I would not wish that on you, but your pacifism will not save you from it. I’m sorry, but I cannot see peace for your warrior kind.”

Satine sniffs. She coughs. He feels a sharp tug in his chest, looking at her already so weak and downtrodden by illness, and now battered by his own unruly emotions. But then she throws back her head. Her hair is lank, the lily-white gold of its strands turned dusty with neglect, but she is somehow regal still.

“We are not violent by nature,” she declares. “Our cultures, our traditions - there is more to Mandalore than bloodshed. And there is bravery in standing bared and open with nothing but peace, our shield between life and death. A blossom is just as noble as a blaster. More, for it thrives in harmony and gentleness. It lives, it grows, it seeds, and grows again. A blaster can _only_ destroy. Would you have me wish that for my people?”

“I do not know your people.”

“Then do not speak for us,” she says. “I may not have seen the galaxy as you have, but I know Mandalore. Pacifism is not passivity. It is still the warrior’s way.”

Obi-Wan kicks out the end of his coarse bushcover, straightening the edges, and smoothing away bumps that rise up beneath the narrow mat. He says nothing as she coughs, not even when the next fit lasts for more than a minute. He only folds his rucksack so that his spare stockings and pants may act as a pillow, and cushion the edges of rations and various other instruments of use. He sits. He pulls off his boots, and aligns them neatly beside his bed. His stockings are next, and he lays them flat to dry in the open air of the forest. At last, the choking and sputtering behind him fades, and he lies down with his back to Satine.

“Aren’t you going to wait for Master Jinn?”

“No,” he says, closing his eyes. “And I wouldn’t advise you to, either, though I know nothing I say has any weight with you.”

“But what if he needs help?”

“Then I don’t suppose your being awake will have particular value there, seeing as you won’t lift a finger to defend him.”

He can hear as she surges to her feet, and kicks at the little rise of buried fire. Bits of sand and ash scatter at his back, but it is only a bluff.

“You’re insufferable,” she says. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” he assures her, pulling his coverlet up high, and nuzzling against his pack until it cradles his head just so. It is a warm night, and the earth still holds the heat of the day. The insects of Harswee have been until now a mannerly bunch, and Obi-Wan hopes that this resolution will last the night. He has already suffered enough. 

He waits until he hears Satine unroll her own kit, kick off her shoes, and lie down before he releases a deep breath, and relaxes into the Force.

When he wakes, it is still dark. The air has turned cold, and Qui-Gon has not returned. Instinctively, as though still a child in the creche, he reaches out to his master first, worried that it is some disturbance there which has stirred him from his rest. But no. Qui-Gon still burns, an effulgent flicker of light somewhere out on the plains, and Obi-Wan feels a sense of comfort and reassurance pass over him like a zephyr of thought. The problem does not lie there.

Instead, he finds it lying six feet away on the other side of the smothered campfire.

Satine’s fever has gotten worse. She shivers on the ground so loudly her teeth chatter, and her shoulders shake. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her, the thin coverlet strained with the desperate desire to provide some heat. Obi-Wan kneels to press his hand to her brow, only to find her skin slick with sweat.

“Oh, Force, Satine,” he says, shaking her awake. She looks at him with glazed eyes, but her frown seems instinctive, for it falls into place immediately upon recognition. 

“I thought I said don’t touch me,” she says. There may be fire in her, but it is raging through her blood and her skin, and her words come out as thin as smoke.

“Your fever is worse,” he says. 

“I know,” she replies.

“You should have said.”

He hurries back to his kit, throwing aside the cover and tripping over his boots in his haste to reach his rucksack. The careful work of folding and primping forgotten as he pulls it apart to find a small canteen of water and a packet of electrolytes. He tears the packet with his teeth, and dumps its contents into the liquid, shaking it, before returning to Satine’s side. With all the gentleness of newborn things, he slips his hand beneath her neck and raises her to rest against his chest. She protests feebly, but she cannot fight him, and when he brings the water to her lips she drinks as bidden.

“Small sips,” he says, one arm wrapped around her back to brace her, the other steadying her hand on the canteen. “You must stay hydrated.”

She nods, but pushes the drink away.

“Satine -”

“I can’t,” she whispers. She wilts against him, her head tucking itself into the crook of his neck beneath his chin. Her breath is hot against his throat, her body hotter still where he can feel the warmth of her fever radiating through the thin layer of her clothes where they touch. He puts the canister on the ground, propped up in the dirt but still within reach. 

“Obi-Wan,” she murmurs. “I’m so cold.”

“Alright,” he says, and he reaches forward to drag her coverlet from where it lies crumpled at her feet. “You’re alright.”

He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and wraps her in his arms. She responds to his touch in a manner so differently than usual he can feel his heart stutter and stop in confusion. Burrowing deeper, she nuzzles her cheek against his chest, and folds her arms between them. 

“Hush,” he says, rubbing wide circles over her back, the friction of his palm against the cover doing little to soothe her tremors, but doing much to calm his own uncertainty. 

“Is Master Jinn returned yet?”

“He will soon,” he says, though Master Jinn is still distant and cool.

“Do you promise?” she asks. She has never asked for his word before, never solicited his opinion, or sought his comfort. He pulls back to look at her face, certain he is being mocked somehow. But her eyes are closed, and her face slack with exhaustion. She tilts her chin, until her throat is bared, and she waits for him to speak.

“I promise,” he says. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I trust you. Will you wake me when he does?”

“I promise,” he repeats, staggered by this turn she so easily concedes to.

“And will you stay with me til then?”

He tightens his arms around her, cradling her head, and holding her close so that she might be warmed by the heat of his own body.

“I promise,” he vows.

And in the dark, he waits, and he watches, and he holds her until the sun comes up.

* * *


End file.
